r 


5 

o 


$ 


-P 
-P 
0) 

o 


-p 

CD 

o 


vo 

vo 

00 

y—t 

en    . 

o  K 

On 

^    CD 

W) 

a^  ?H 

CO    O 

0) 

vo  o 

^ 

•      •-. 

c 

<D 

00   o 

CO 

r-  CO 

. 

•iH 

tH   -tH 

00 

?H 

c^  ;h 

(N 

1 

^ 

<Ts 

c 

X  O 

r—i 

3 

PQ  S 

CO 

Mr  ti  >m 


SUN-RISE 

Addresses    from    a    City    Pulpit 

BY    THE 

y 

REV.  G.  H.  MORRISON,  M,A. 

GLASGOW 


NEW    YORK 
A.   C.   ARMSTRONG   AND    SON 

3  AND   5  WEST   I  8th  STREET 

LONDON:  HODDER  AND  STOUGHTON 

M  c  M  I  1  r 


Unto  you  that  fear  My  name  shall  the 
Sun  of  Righteousness  arise  ivith  healing 
in  His  ivinors. — Mal.  iv.  2. 


Edinburgh :  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  His  Majesty. 


Dear  Dr.  Black, 

I  wish  to  dedicate  this  little 
book  to  you  as  a  token  of  regard.  It  would 
be  difficult  for  me  to  speak  too  gratefully  of 
the  courtesy  I  have  received  at  your  hands. 
I  can  cherish  no  brighter  hope  for  my  own 
ministry  than  that  after  a  lengthened  term  of 
service,  such  as  yours  has  been,  I  too  may 
have  won  some  of  that  loving  reverence  in 
which  you  are  held  by  our  noble  congregation. 

Very  truly  yours, 

G.  H.  MORRISON. 

JVeUington  Church, 
Glasgow,  1903. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Homesickness  of  the  Soul      .  .  .  i 

And  when  he  came  to  himself,  he  said,  *  How  many  hired 
servants  of  my  father's  have  bread  enough  and  to  spare, 
and  I  perish  with  hunger  !' — Luke  xv.  17. 


Mystery       .  .  .  .  .  .12 

Now  I  know  in  part. — i  Cor.  xiii.  iz. 

*  The  Wonder  and  Bloom  of  the  World'  .         21 

Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field. — Matt.  vi.  28. 

Mistaken   Magnitudes  .  .  .  .32 

Ye  blind  guiiles,  which  strain  at  a  gnat,  and  swallow  a  camel. 
— Matt,  xxiii.  24. 

Laughter  and   Sorrow         .  .  ,  ,  43    r^ 

Even  in  laughter  the  heart  is  sorrowful. —  Prov.  xiv.  13. 

vu 


Vlll 


SUN-RISE 


The  Pagan  Duty  of  Disdain 

Take  heed   that   ye   despise   not    one    of  these   little   ontrs. 
Matt,  xviii.  lo. 


53 


Near-Cuts  not  God's  .... 

God   led    them   not    through    the    way    of   the    land    of  the 
Philistines,  although  that  was  near. — Exod.  xiii.  17. 


64 


The  Departing  of  the  Angel 

And  they  went  out,  and    passed   on   through  one   street,  and 
forthwith  the  angel  departed  from  him. — Acts  xii.  10. 


74 


Undeveloped  Lives  ..... 

Except  a  corn  of  wheat  fall  into  the  ground  and  die,  it  abideth 
alone. — John  xii.  24. 


H 


The  Search  for  Happiness 

Happy  art  thou,  O  Israel. — Deut.  xxxiii,  29. 


9+ 


V 


Curiosity 


And    He  smote  the  men   of  Bethshemesh  because  they  had 
looked  into  the  ark  of  the  Lord. — i  Sam.  vi.  19. 


104 


CONTENTS  ix 


PAGE 


Seeming  to  Have     .  .  .  s  ,114 

From  him  shall  be  taken  even  that  which  he  seemeth  to  have. 
— Luke  viii.  18. 


A   Plea  for  Simplicity        .  .  -  .124 

The  simplicity  that  is  in  Christ. — 2  Cor.  xi.  3. 

'After  that,  the  Dark'    .  .  .  •        ^33 

He  knoweth  what  is  in  the  darkness. — Dan.  ii.  22. 

Counting  the  Cost  .  .  .  .147 

Which  of  you,  intending  to  build  a  tower,  sitteth  not  down 
first,  and  counteth  the  cost. — Luke  xiv.  28. 

The  Sending  of  the  Sword  .  ,  .158 

I  came  not  to  send  peace,  but  a  sword. — Matt.  x.  34. 

Wasted  Gains  .  .  ,  .  .169 

The  slothful  man   roasteth  not  that   which  he  took  in  hunt- 
ing.—  Frov.  xii.  27. 


SUN-RISE 


Undetected  Losses 


Gray  hairs  are  here  and  there  upon  him,  yet  he  knoweth  not. 
— Hos.  vii.  9. 

/ 

When  the  Child-spirit  dies  •  .  .187 

Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. — Matt.  xix.  14. 


The  Leisure  of  Faith  ,  .  .  .196 

He  that  believeth  shall  not  make  haste. — Is.  xxviii.  16. 

The  Opened  Windows  ....        207 

His  windows  being  open   in  his  chamber  toward  Jerusilfm. 
— Dan.  vi.  10. 

Is  Life  a  Tragedy?  .  ,  .  .218 

To  the  Half-hearted  ....        230 

Whatsoever  ye  do,  do  it  heartily,  as  to  the  Lord. — Col.  iii.  23. 

The   Unlikely  Instruments   of  God  .  .        240 

Babylon  hath  been  a  golden  cup  in  the  Lor<rs  hand. — Jer.  li.  7. 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

The  Touchstone  of  Fact   ....       2+9 

Have  ye  not  asked  them  that  go  by  the  way  ? — Job  xxi.  29. 

The  Glory  and  the  Gate  .  .  .       260 

And  Mordecai  came  again  to  the  king's  gate. — Esiher  vi.  12. 

A  Soul  to  Let        .  .  .  .  .271 

When  the  unclean  spirit  is  gone  out  of  a  man,  he  walketh 
through  dry  places,  seeking  rest,  and  findeth  none. 
Then  he  saith,  I  will  return  into  my  house  from  whence 
I  came  out  ;  and  when  he  is  come,  he  findeth  it  empty, 
swept,  and  garnished.  Then  goeth  he,  and  taketh  with 
himself  seven  other  spirits  more  wicked  than  himself, 
and  they  enter  in  and  dwell  there  :  and  the  last  state  of 
that  man  is  worse  than  the  first. — Matt.  xii.  43-45. 

The  Irksomeness  of  Religion  .  .  .       279 

There  is  nothing  at  all,  beside  this  manna,  before  our  eyes. — 
Num.  xi.  6. 

The  Pre-Requisite  of  Vision  .  .  .       290 

When  they  were  awake,  they  saw  His  glory.— Luke  ix    32. 
The  Note  of  the  Heroic  ....        3°° 

His  eyes  were  as  a  fiame  of  fire. — Rev.  i.  14. 


THE   HOMESICKNESS   OF    THE   SOUL 

And  when  he  came  to  himself,  he  said,  *  How  many  hired  servants 
of  my  father's  have  bread  enough  and  to  spare,  and  I  perish  with 
hunger  •  ' — Luke  xv.  17. 

A  VERY  fresh  and  delightful  American  writer, 
John  Burroughs — a  man  who  often  reminds  us 
of  our  own  Richard  Jefferies — has  given  us  in 
one  of  his  books  a  most  illuminative  and  sug- 
gestive paper  on  Carlyle.  Mr.  Burroughs  visited 
Carlyle  in  London — his  essay  is  called  *  A  Sunday 
in  Cheyne  Row ' — and  with  great  tenderness,  and 
wisdom,  and  literary  skill  he  has  recorded  his 
impressions  of  the  visit.  Now  I  am  not  going 
to  speak  of  Mr.  Burroughs  to-night,  nor  am  I 
going  to  preach  about  Carlyle  ;  but  there  was  one 
phrase  in  that  essay  that  seemed  to  me  very 
memorable  :  it  was  the  phrase  '  homesickness  of 
the  soul.'  'A  kind  of  homesickness  of  the  soul 
was  on  Carlyle,'  says  Mr.  Burroughs,  'and  it 
deepened  with  age.' 


2       HOMESICKNESS  OF  THE  SOUL 

That,  then,  is  the  topic  on  which  I  wish  to  speak. 
My  subject  is  the  homesickness  of  the  soul. 
I  want  to  take  the  thought  that  the  soul  is  home- 
sick, and  use  it  to  shed  a  little  light  on  dark 
places.  Perhaps  we  shall  proceed  more  com- 
fortably togefher  if  I  divide  what  I  have  to  say 
under  two  heads,  (i)  Under  this  light  we  may 
view  the  unrest  of  sin.  (2)  Under  this  light  we 
may  view  the  craving  for  God. 

First,  then.  Under  this  light  we  may  view  the 
unrest  of  sin. 

It  is  notable  that  it  was  in  this  light  that  Jesus 
viewed  it,  in  the  crowning  parable  from  which  we 
have  taken  our  text.  The  prodigal  was  an  exile  ; 
he  was  in  a  far  country.  It  was  the  memory  of 
his  home  that  filled  his  heart.  There  are  concep- 
tions of  the  awakened  sinner  that  make  him  the 
prey  of  an  angry  and  threatening  conscience. 
And  I  know  that  sometimes,  when  a  man  comes 
to  himself,  he  can  see  nothing  and  hear  nothing 
in  the  universe  but  the  terrors  and  judgments 
of  a  sovereign  God.  But  it  was  not  terror  that 
smote  the  prodigal  deep.  It  was  home,  home, 
home,  for  which  his  poor  soul  was  crying.  He 
saw  the  farm,  bosomed  among  the  hills,  and  the 


HOMESICKNESS  OF  THE  SOUL       3 

weary  oxen  coming  home  at  eventide,  and  the 
happy  circle  gathered  round  the  fire,  and  his  father 
crying  to  heaven  for  the  wanderer.  His  sorrow's 
crown  of  sorrows  was  remembering  happier  things. 
He  came  to  himself,  and  he  was  homesick. 

Now  I  think  that  Jesus  would  have  us  learn 
from  that  that  wickedness  is  not  the  home-land 
of  the  soul,  and  that  all  the  unrest  and  the 
dissatisfaction  of  the  wicked  is  just  the  craving 
of  his  heart  for  home.  We  were  not  fashioned 
to  be  at  home  in  sin.  We  bear  the  image  of 
God,  and  God  is  goodness.  The  native  air  of 
this  mysterious  heart  is  the  love  and  purity 
and  joy  of  heaven.  So  when  a  man  deliberately 
sins,  and  all  the  time  hungers  for  better  things, 
it  is  not  the  hunger  for  an  impossible  ideal  ; 
it  is  the  hunger  of  his  soul  for  home.  Ah ! 
do  not  forget  that  you  can  satisfy  that  hunger 
instantly.  To-night,  out  of  the  furthest  country, 
in  a  single  instant  of  time,  you  may  come  home. 
We  are  not  like  the  emigrant  in  the  far  west 
of  Canada  longing  for  Highland  hills  he  will 
not  see  for  years.  God  waits.  Christ  says, 
*  Return  this  very  hour.'  Though  your  sins  be  as 
scarlet,  they  shall  be  white  as  snow. 


4       HOMESICKNESS  OF  THE  SOUL 

In  that  very  fascinating  little  volume  by- 
Charlotte  Yonge,  in  which  sh^  narrates  the  history 
of  the  Moors  in  Spain,  there  are  few  pages  more 
enthralling  than  those  in  which  she  tells  the 
story  of  Abderraman.  Abderraman  was  the  first 
Moorish  Khalif  in  Spain.  He  was  an  Eastern, 
bred  by  the  Euphrates.  There  was  no  great 
beauty  in  the  scenes  where  he  spent  his  child- 
hood. And  his  Spanish  home,  in  the  old  city 
of  Cordova,  seems  to  have  been  a  fairy-palace  of 
delight.  Yet  among  all  the  groves  and  towers 
and  fountains  of  fair  Cordova,  Abderraman  was 
miserable — it  was  banishment.  And  when  he 
got  a  palm-tree  from  his  Syrian  home,  and  planted 
it  in  his  Spanish  garden,  one  of  the  old  ballads  of 
the  Arabs  tells  us  that  he  could  never  look  at  it 
without  tears.  Do  you  not  think  that  the  children 
of  Cordova  would  mock  at  that  ?  It  was  their 
home,  and  they  were  very  happy.  They  could  not 
understand  this  Oriental,  unhappy  and  restless 
among  the  garden  groves.  And  my  point  is  that 
you  will  never  understand  the  soul's  unrest,  amid 
the  exquisite  delights  of  sense  and  sin,  unless  it 
is  hungering  for  another  country,  as  Abderraman 
hungered  for  his  Syrian  dwelling.      It  is  not  facts, 


HOMESICKNESS  OF  THE  SOUL       5 

it  is  mysteries,  that  keep  me  from  materialism. 
I  believe  in  the  cravings  of  the  human  heart,  and 
they  overturn  a  score  of  demonstrations.  If  I 
were  a  creature  of  a  few  nerves  and  fibres  only,  I 
should  be  very  happy  in  my  Cordova.  But  we 
were  made  in  goodness,  and  we  were  made  for 
goodness  ;  and  the  native  air  of  the  soul  is  love 
and  truth  ;  and  we  shall  always  be  dissatisfied, 
always  be  homesick,  if  we  are  trying  to  live  in 
any  other  land. 

This  thought,  too,  helps  us  to  understand  why 
men  cover  evil  with  a  veil  of  goodness.  It  is  just 
the  longing  of  the  exile  or  of  the  emigrant  to  give 
a  homelike  touch  to  his  surroundings.  Why  do 
you  find  an  Inverness  in  Canada.^  Because  men 
and  women  from  Inverness  went  there.  And  why 
do  you  find  a  Glasgow  in  Canada  ^  Because  it 
reminded  these  Glasgow  men  of  home.  Do  you 
know  what  James  Chalmers  of  New  Guinea — the 
greatest  soul  on  the  Pacific,  as  Stevenson  called 
him — do  you  remember  what  he  called  the  first 
bay  he  discovered  in  New  Guinea  ?  He  called  it 
Inveraray  Bay.  I  do  not  think  he  would  ever  have 
dreamed  of  that  name  had  he  not  been  born  and 
spent  his  boyhood  by  Loch  Fyne.     And  when  I 


6      HOMESICKNESS  OF  THE  SOUL 

see  men  taking  the  names  of  goodness  and  labelling 
their  vices  and  their  sins  with  them,  when  I  note 
how  ready  we  all  are  to  use  a  kindly  term  for 
some  habit  or  frailty  that  is  most  unkindly,  I 
think  that  it  is  the  soul  telling  where  it  was 
born,  confessing  unconsciously  that  it  is  a  little 
homesick,  and  trying  to  give  a  homelike  touch 
to  the  far  country,  just  like  James  Chalmers 
with  his  Inveraray  Bay. 

And  we  can  understand  the  loneliness  of  sin 
when  we  remember  this  homesickness  of  the 
soul.  The  man  who  is  homesick  is  always  lonely. 
It  does  not  matter  how  crowded  the  streets  are ; 
the  city  may  be  gay  and  bright  and  brilHant,  but 
all  the  stir  of  it,  and  all  the  laughter  of  it,  and 
all  the  throng  and  tumult  of  the  life  of  it  will 
not  keep  a  homesick  man  from  being  lonely. 
Nay,  sometimes  it  intensifies  his  loneliness.  It  is 
made  more  acute  by  the  contrasts  of  the  crowd. 
It  is  not  in  the  quiet  spaces  of  great  nature,  it  is 
among  the  crowds  whom  you  will  meet  to-night, 
that  the  bitterness  of  loneliness  is  found.  Now 
sin  is  a  great  power  that  makes  for  loneliness. 
Slowly  but  surely,  if  a  man  lives  in  sin,  he  drifts 
apart   into   spiritual   isolation.      And   the    strange 


HOMESICKNESS  OF  THE  SOUL       7 

thing  is  that  the  sins  we  call  social  sins,  the  sins 
that  begin  in  fellowship  and  company,  are  the  very 
sins  that  drive  a  man  apart,  and  leave  him  at  last 
utterly  alone.  That  loneliness  is  homesickness  of 
the  soul.  It  is  the  heart  craving  for  home  again. 
God  grant  that  if  in  this  house  there  be  one  man 
who  is  drifting  away  on  a  great  sea  of  wretched 
self-indulgence,  from  wife  and  child  or  mother 
and  sister  and  friend — God  grant  that,  drawn  by 
the  love  of  Christ,  he  may  come  home  I 

Secondly  and  briefly :  Under  this  light  wc  may 
view  the  craving  for  God. 

We  often  speak  of  heaven  as  our  home,  and  in 
many  deep  senses  that  is  a  true  expression.  If  in 
heaven  we  shall  meet  again  those  whom  we  loved 
and  lost,  and  if  boys  and  girls  will  be  playing  in 
the  streets  of  Zion,  I  have  no  doubt  that  heaven 
will  be  a  homelike  place.  But  in  deeper  senses 
heaven  is  not  our  home,  or  if  it  is,  it  is  just 
because  God  is  there.  In  the  deepest  sense  our 
home  is  not  heaven,  but  God.  Do  you  remember 
how  Wordsworth  put  it  in  his  glorious  Ode  on 
the  Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Childhood  ? 
I  think  a  lesser  poet  would  have  written  it  thus, 
*  Trailing    clouds    of    glory   do    we    come    from 


8       HOMESICKNESS  OF  THE  SOUL 

heaven  which   is  our  home.'     But  Wordsworth. 

Uke  a  true  seer,  did  not  write  that,  but — '  Trailing 

clouds  of  glory  do  we  come  from  God,  who  is  our 

home.' 

'  Our  God,  our  help  in  ages  past, 
Our  hope  for  years  to  come, 
Our  shelter  from  the  stormy  blast, 
And — our  eternal  home.' 

God  is  the  true  home  of  the  human  soul. 

Do  you  see,  then,  the  meaning  of  that  craving 

for    God    that    is   one   of  the"  strangest   facts  in 

human  history  ^     You  would  have  thought  that 

in  a  world   like   this,  so  full  of  interest,   colour, 

music,   and   delight,    mankind   would   have   lived 

in    contentment    without    God.      But    the    Book 

of  Psalms  is  filled  with   that   passionate   craving 

— *As    the    hart    pants    after    the   water-brooks.' 

And  if  the   Book  of  Psalms  has  lived   through 

chance    and    change,    and    been    cherished    when 

ten  thousand  volumes  are  forgotten,  it  is  largely 

because  it  gives  a  voice  in  noblest  poetry  to  this 

unappeased    hunger    of   mankind.      We    do    not 

crave  for  God  because  He  is  glorious.     We  do 

not  crave  for  God  because  He  is  sovereign.     We 

are  just    homesick,   that    is    the    meaning   of   it. 

We  crave  for  God  because  He  is  our  home. 


HOMESICKNESS  OF  THE  SOUL       9 

Now  this  homesickness  of  the  soul  for  God 
is  one  of  our  surest  proofs  of  God.  It  is  an 
argument  more  powerful  than  any  that  philo- 
sophy affords  to  convince  me  that  there  is  a 
God.  We  are  all  grateful  when  a  prince  of 
science  like  Lord  Kelvin  tells  us  he  is  forced  to 
believe  in  a  directive  power.  But  in  a  day  or 
two  you  will  have  some  one  writing  to  the  Times 
denying  the  validity  of  that  induction.  But  no 
one  denies  that  souls  still  pant  for  God.  And 
hearts  to-day  and  here  still  thirst  for  Him,  as 
truly  as  the  exiled  psalmist  did.  And  unless  life 
be  a  sham,  and  unless  we  were  born  and  fashioned 
to  be  mocked,  there  cannot  be  homesickness 
without  a  home.  I  crave  for  food,  and  mother- 
earth  holds  out  her  hands  to  me  and  says,  *  Yes, 
child,  there  is  food.*  I  crave  for  happiness  ;  and 
the  shining  of  the  sun,  and  the  song  of  birds, 
and  the  sound  of  music,  and  the  laughter  of 
children,  come  to  my  heart  and  say  to  me,  *  There 
it  is/  I  crave  for  God.  And  will  the  universe 
reverse  its  order  now  }  Will  it  provide  for  every 
other  instinct,  and  call  the  noblest  of  them  all  a 
mockery  ^.  It  is  impossible.  Without  a  home, 
homesickness    is    inexplicable.     My    craving    for 


lo     HOMESICKNESS  OF  THE  SOUL 

God  assures  me  that  God  is.  All  other  argu- 
ments may  fail  me.  When  my  mind  is  wearied, 
and  my  memory  tired,  I  forget  them.  But  this 
one,  knit  with  my  heart,  and  part  and  parcel  of 
my  truest  manhood,  survives  all  moods,  is  strong 
when  I  am  weak,  and  brings  me  to  the  door  of 
God  my  home. 

One  of  the  saddest  letters  in  all  literature  is 
a  letter  written  by  our  own  poet,  David  Gray. 
David  Gray  was  born  eight  miles  from  Glasgow ; 
he  went  to  the  Free  Church  Normal  in  this  city. 
His  honest  father  would  have  made  a  preacher 
of  him,  but  God  forestalled  that  by  making  him 
a  poet.  Well,  nothing  would  satisfy  David  but 
he  must  go  to  London.  He  suffered  much  there 
and  fell  into  consumption.  And  this  is  one  of 
his  last  letters  home  : — *  Torquay,  Jan.  6,  1861. 
Dear  Parents, — I  am  coming  home  —  home- 
sick. I  cannot  stay  from  home  any  longer. 
What's  the  good  of  me  being  so  far  from  home 
and  sick  and  ill  ^.  O  God  1  I  wish  I  were  home 
never  to  leave  it  more !  Tell  everybody  that  I  am 
coming  back — no  better  :  worse,  worse.  What's 
about  climate,  about  frost  or  snow  or  cold 
weather,  when  one 's    at    home  ?     I   wish   I    had 


HOMESICKNESS  OF  THE  SOUL     n 

never  left  it.  ...  I  have  no  money,  and  I  want 
to  get  home,  home,  home.  What  shall  I  do,  O 
God  !  Father,  I  shall  steal  to  you  again,  because 
I  did  not  use  you  rightly.  .  .  .  Will  you  forgive 
me  ?  Do  I  ask  that  ?  ,  .  ,  I  have  come  through 
things  that  would  make  your  hearts  ache  for  me 
— things  that  I  shall  never  tell  to  anybody  but 
you,  and  you  shall  keep  them  secret  as  the  grave. 
Get  my  own  little  room  ready  quick,  quick  ; 
have  it  all  tidy,  and  clean,  and  cosy,  against  my 
homecoming.  I  wish  to  die  there,  and  nobody 
shall  nurse  me  except  my  own  dear  mother,  ever, 
ever  again.     O  home,  home,  home  ! ' 

I  will  arise  and  go  unto  my  Father.  Thank 
God  we  need  no  money  for  that  journey.  Is  there 
no  one  here  who  has  been  far  away,  who  is  going 
to  come  home — to  God — this  very  hour  ^ 


MYSTERY 

Now  I  know  In  part. — i  Cor.  xiii.  12. 

It  has  ever  been  a  mark  of  Christianity  that  it 
kept  men  alive  to  the  mysteries  around  them. 
The  souls  that  have  drunk  most  deeply  of  the 
Christian  doctrine  are  the  souls  who  have  most 
felt  the  mystery  of  life.  You  may  gather  up 
the  Christian  teaching  in  confessions,  and  it  is 
vitally  necessary  that  that  should  be  done.  But 
when  everything  is  tabulated  and  reduced  to 
system,  we  are  still  haunted  by  a  sense  of  the 
inexplicable — more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 
I  dare  say  a  chemist  could  explain  to  me  the  causes 
of  all  the  colours  in  a  sunset.  And  yet  in  the 
blending  glories  of  a  sunset  there  is  something 
that  no  man  shall  ever  analyse.  So  men  have 
gathered  up  and  set  in  order  the  contents  of  the 
Christian  revelation,  but  the  great  secrets  have 
not  ceased  to  baffle  them. 

And  yet,  perhaps,  there  never  was  a  time  in 


MYSTERY  13 

which  the  sense  of  mystery  was  less  present  than 
to-day.  *  We  have  not  any  mysteries  to-day,' 
said  a  French  writer  whom  I  chanced  on  lately. 
How  far  that  dying  out  of  the  mysterious  may  be 
traced  to  the  decline  of  living  faith  is  a  question 
that  might  admit  of  much  discussion.  B-it  there 
are  other  causes  which  I  should  like  to  indicate. 

One  is  the  tyranny  of  facts  under  which  we  live. 
I  suppose  there  was  never  a  time  in  the  world's 
history  when  there  was  such  a  craving  for 
scientific  truth.  There  is  no  man  more  apt  to  be 
blind  to  the  great  mysteries  than  the  specialist, 
and  this  is  pre-eminently  the  age  of  specialism. 
Tennyson  is  most  wonderfully  accurate  in  every 
reference  he  makes  to  nature,  and  in  this,  as  in  so 
many  other  points,  he  interprets  the  spirit  of  the 
age  he  lived  in.  Now  no  one  will  question  the 
value  of  that  spirit,  nor  the  immense  gains  which 
it  has  won  for  us.  I  only  suggest  that  an  age 
with  that  dominant  note  is  not  likely  to  be 
haunted  by  the  mystery  of  things. 

And  then  again  this  is  an  age  of  machinery, 
and  there  is  litde  mystery  in  a  machine.  We  are 
likely  to  grow  dull  to  many  wonders,  when  we 
take  to   calculating   by  /zon^-power.       'So  many 


14  MYSTERY 

hundred  hands  in  this  mill/  says  Charles  Dickens 
in  that  powerful  little  story  of  his,  Hard  Times, 
'  so  many  hundred  horse  steam  power.  It  is 
known,  to  the  force  of  a  single  pound-weight, 
what  the  engine  will  do.  .  .  .  There  is  no  mystery 
in  it.'  And  he  means  that  when  an  age  puts  the 
emphasis  not  on  man  but  on  machinery,  we  are 
not  likely  to  be  troubled  greatly  by  the  strange 
sense  of  the  inexplicable. 

And  then  this  is  an  age  of  travel.  The  world 
is  explored  into  its  darkest  corners.  We  do  not 
expect  now,  as  men  expected  once,  to  hear  of 
marvellous  things  from  Africa  or  India.  I  love 
to  turn  the  pages  of  Sir  John  Mandeville,  that 
most  amazing  mediaeval  wanderer.  You  had  only 
to  cross  the  sea  with  Sir  John  Mandeville,  and 
you  were  in  the  midst  of  astounding  mysteries  at 
once.  But  the  world  is  very  different  to-day. 
Its  most  distant  countries  have  been  mapped  and 
photographed.  Knowledge  has  come,  and  per- 
haps a  little  wisdom  with  it ;  but  the  older  sense 
of  the  world's  mystery  has  gone.  *  Ah  me  ! '  says 
our  Scottish  poet  Alexander  Smith,  in  his  most 
delightful  essay  On  Vagabonds,  '  what  a  world  this 
was  to  live  in  two  or  three  centuries  ago,  when  it 
was  getting  itself  discovered.  .  .  .  Then  were  the 


MYSTERY  15 

Arabian  Nights  commonplace,  enchantments  a 
matter  of  course,  and  romance  the  most  ordinary 
thing  in  the  world.  Then  man  was  courting 
Nature,  now  he  has  married  her.  Every  mystery 
is  dissipated.' 

I  think,  then,  that  it  is  supremely  important  in 
these  times  that  we  should  endeavour  to  keep 
alive  the  sense  of  mystery.  And  I  am  sure  that 
the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  always  meant  it  to  have 
large  room  in  His  disciples'  hearts. 

Think,  for  example,  of  what  our  Lord  meant 
by  unbelief.  '  Why  are  ye  fearful,  O  ye  of  little 
faith  ? '  That  was  the  one  rebuke  which  He  used 
to  launch  at  His  disciples,  for  there  was  nothing 
that  grieved  Christ  more  than  lack  of  faith.  And 
it  was  not  lack  of  faith  in  any  particular  doctrines 
— it  was  not  (hat  which  called  out  the  rebuke  of 
Christ.  It  was  rather  such  a  view  of  God's  great 
universe  as  left  no  room  for  any  mystery  in  it. 
Why  are  ye  fearful,  O  ye  of  little  faith  ?  Is  there 
nothing  else  abroad  but  storm  and  cloud-rack  ? 
Had  they  only  felt  the  mystery  of  the  Divine, 
touching  and  girding  even  the  angry  waters,  they 
had  been  less  disquieted,  out  at  sea.  That  was 
what  Jesus  meant  by  unbeHef :  not  a  mind  that 
denies,  but  a  spirit  that  disowns.     A  heart  that 


1 6  MYSTERY 

will  not  recognise,  amid  things  seen,  the  power, 
the  love,  the  mystery  of  God.  You  see,  then, 
that  the  disciple  of  Christ  must  have  a  spirit 
that  is  alive  to  mystery. 

And  then  you  remember  that  other  declaration  : 
*  Except  ye  become  as  little  children.'  You  can- 
not even  see  the  kingdom  of  God,  unless  within 
you  is  the  heart  of  childhood,  and  all  things  are 
mysterious  to  the  child.  The  children's  world  is 
full  of  spiritual  presences  ;  they  never  think  of 
God  as  far  away.  I  do  not  think  that  any  child 
would  be  much  surprised  if  it  met  God  out  in  the 
green  fields.  Flowers  speak  to  them  in  voices  we 
have  Jost,  the  night  winds  cry  to  them,  the  clouds 
are  still  peopled  countries.  In  the  red  depths  of 
the  winter's  fire  on  the  hearth,  they  see  '  mighty 
castles  towering  to  the  moon.'  The  fear  of 
childhood  is  not  the  fear  of  cowardice  ;  the  fear 
of  childhood  is  the  fear  of  imagination.  We 
should  all  fear  the  darkness  as  the  child  does,  if 
we  believed  it  was  full  of  eyes  and  living  things. 
Now  Jesus  wants  no  disciple  to  be  childish  :  when 
we  become  men  we  put  away  childish  things. 
But  the  childlike  spirit,  that  believes  in  possi- 
bilities, that  hungers  for  a  world  behind  the  world, 
that  cannot  touch   a  flower  or  hear  an   echo  but 


MYSTERY  17 

there  comes  some  suggestion  of  things  mystical, 
that  spirit  is  the  spirit  of  the  Christian.  You  see, 
then,  that  in  the  Christian  temper  Christ  Jesus 
insisted  on  a  large  place  for  mystery.  *  Except 
ye  become  as  little  children.' 

It  is  notable,  too — 1  wish  to  impress  this  on 
you — that  Jesus  deepened  the  mystery  of  every- 
thing He  touched.  Things  never  become  less 
mysterious,  always  more,  when  they  have  passed 
through  the  mind  and  heart  of  Jesus  Christ.  We 
think  of  Jesus  as  the  great  explainer,  and  we 
thank  God  for  the  rough  places  Christ  has 
made  plain.  He  has  given  an  answer  to  a 
thousand  problems.  He  has  come  like  light  into 
our  human  darkness.  But  Jesus  never  explained 
anything  by  lessening  the  mystery  that  clung  to 
it.  He  is  a  sorry  teacher  who  shows  the  merely 
obvious.  Jesus  enlarged  the  mystery  of  things, 
intensified  it,  deepened  it  twentyfold.  When 
He  wished  to  make  men  understand  a  matter. 
He  showed  that  there  was  more  to  be  under- 
stood than  they  had  dreamed. 

Take  one  of  His  leading  words  like  life,  for 
instance.  You  say,  and  say  rightly,  that  Christ 
explains  life   to  you.     You  understand  it  better, 

B 


i8  MYSTERY 

and  you  can  live  It  better,  in  the  light  that  Jesus 
has  cast  upon  its  meaning.  But  when  I  think  of 
what  life  meant  in  the  old  pagan  world,  how 
shallow  it  was,  how  sensuous  and  short,  and  when 
I  compare  that  with  the  life  that  is  in  Christ,  with 
its  depth,  its  joy,  its  fulness,  its  infinite  issues,  I 
feel  at  once  how  the  mystery  of  life  is  deepened, 
in  passing  through  the  hands  of  Jesus  Christ. 

Or  take  the  thought  of  death.  Christ  has 
illumined  death.  There  is  not  a  mourner  here 
but  has  felt,  in  the  dark  hour,  how  unutterably 
glorious  is  the  gospel  teaching.  It  is  when  the 
heart  is  empty,  and  the  grave  is  open,  that  we 
know  the  tenderness  and  power  of  Christian  con- 
solation. Christ  has  illumined  death ;  but  has 
He  banished  its  mystery }  He  hath  taken  away 
its  sting,  but  deepened  its  mystery.  There  are 
moral  bearings  in  it  :  it  is  the  wages  of  sin. 
There  are  glorious  hopes  in  it  :  the  body  shall  be 
raised.  There  are  dim  suggestions  in  the  very 
word,  of  eternal  separations  from  love  and  joy  and 
God.  And  all  this  mystery  of  light,  and  mystery 
of  darkness,  has  been  poured  into  the  cup  of 
death  by  Jesus  Christ.  Death  has  strange  mean- 
ings for  the  humblest  now,  that  it  had  not  for  the 


MYSTERY  19 

wisest  before  Jesus  came.  Christ  has  intensified 
its  mystery  a  thousandfold. 

Or  not  to  multiply  instances,  take  the  thought 
of  God.  You  and  1  know  God  through  the 
Lord  Jesus  Christ.  All  that  we  know  of  God 
from  outward  nature,  and  all  that  we  gather  from 
the  world's  long  history,  is  but  the  outwork  and 
flanking  of  that  revelation  which  is  ours  through 
the  life  and  death  of  Jesus.  Now  tell  me,  is  God 
less  mysterious  to  us  in  the  light  of  that  revela- 
tion of  Christ  Jesus  }  '  God  without  mystery 
were  not  good  news.'  God  was  a  Sovereign  once, 
now  He  is  Father,  and  there  are  more  mysteries 
in  Fatherhood  than  in  Kingship.  God  was  a  God 
of  power  once ;  He  is  a  God  of  love  now  ;  and 
all  the  power  of  all  the  thunderbolts  of  Jove  are 
not  so  mysterious  as  the  slightest  spark  of  love. 
And  God  was  alone  once,  or  there  were  many 
Gods.  Now,  baffling  comprehension,  yet  most 
real,  we  have  a  vision  of  Three  in  One  and  One  in 
Three.    Christ  has  intensified  the  mystery  of  God. 

I  trust  that  you  see,  then,  how  true  it  is,  that 
Jesus  deepened  the  mystery  of  things.  And  I 
trust  that  you  begin  to  understand  what  the  spirit 
of  Christ  longs  to  achieve  in  you.     The  Christian 


20  MYSTERY 

view  is  always  the  deepest  view.  The  Lord  who 
inspired  it  saw  kingdoms  in  mustard  -  seeds. 
There  is  more  in  the  world,  and  in  man,  and  in 
the  Bible,  than  the  nicest  calculation  can  discover, 
but  we  only  see  it  through  the  eyes  of  Christ. 
They  tell  us  that  to  see  the  unusual  we  ought  to 
travel.  But  perhaps  a  better  way  to  see  it  is  to  be 
Christ's.  For  it  is  then  that  life,  and  death,  and 
human  hearts,  and  all  things,  break  into  glories 
of  meaning  unsuspected.  It  is  then,  too,  that  a 
man  becomes  humble.  Touched  by  a  sense  of 
mystery,  he  must  be  reverent.  And  it  is  then 
that  he  begins  again  to  wonder  ;  and  when  a 
man  ceases  to  wonder,  may  God  pity  him  ! 
Do  not  be  dogmatic.  Do  not  be  bigoted. 
The  world  is  too  mysterious  for  that.  Expect 
surprises.  Have  an  open  eye.  Believe  that 
there  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  than 
have  been  dreamed  of  in  your  philosophies. 
And  then,  when  common  actions  are  irradiated, 
and  common  lives  flash  into  moral  glories, 
when  the  mysteries  of  life,  and  love,  and  death, 
and  God,  so  baffle  us  that  we  can  only  say 
with  Paul  '  we  know  in  part ' — we  shall  be  nearer 
the  spirit  of  Jesus  than  we  dreamed. 


'THE    WONDER    AND    BLOOM    OF 
THE    WORLD' 

Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field. — Matt.  vi.  28. 

In  these  glorious  June  days,  when  the  world  is 
so  full  of  light  and  joy,  it  is  an  unspeakable 
satisfaction  to  remember  that  our  Lord  was 
keenly  alive  to  the  message  of  nature.  It  is 
part  of  the  undying  charm  of  the  gospel-story 
that  while  it  sounds  all  the  deeps  of  the  human 
spirit,  it  never  forgets  that  we  are  living  in  a 
world  where  the  grass  is  green  and  where  the 
birds  are  singing.  There  are  poets  whose  gift 
is  that  of  interpreting  nature.  There  are  others 
whose  genius  works  at  its  noblest  in  interpreting 
the  strange  story  of  mankind.  But  the  sublimest 
masters  are  dowered  with  both  these  gifts — they 
interpret  nature  and  they  interpret  man.  Now 
Jesus  Christ  was  far  more  than  a  poet ;  He  was 
inspired  as  no  poet  ever  was.  Yet  the  twofold 
gift  of  interpreting  nature  and  man,  the  gift  that 


22  *THE  WONDER  AND 

Is  the  glory  of  our  masterpieces,  shines  out  most 
cloudlessly  upon  the  gospel-page.  It  is  there 
we  read  of  the  Samaritan  woman.  It  is  there 
we  read  of  the  denial  of  Peter.  But  the  mustard- 
seed  and  the  birds  and  the  lilies  are  there  too. 

Now  no  doubt  this  love  of  nature  which  was 
so  strong  in  Jesus  sprang  partly  from  the  circum- 
stances of  His  birth.  He  was  a  Hebrew  with  a 
Hebrew  lineage,  after  the  flesh,  and  nature  was 
eloquent  with  voices  to  the  Hebrew.  You  can 
often  tell  what  a  people  gives  its  heart  to  by 
the  richness  and  copiousness  of  its  vocabulary. 
Where  a  nation's  interests  have  been  long  and 
deeply  engaged,  there  it  sooai  wins  for  itself  a 
wealth  of  terms.  Well,  in  the  Hebrew  language 
there  are  some  ten  words  for  rain,  and  to  the 
understanding  heart  that  is  significant.  Into  that 
heritage,  then,  Jesus  of  Nazareth  entered.  He 
was  the  child  of  a  race  that  had  lived  with  open 
eyes.  And  if  the  glory  of  the  world  lights  up 
the  gospel-story — if  there  are  sermons  in  stones, 
and  books  in  running  brooks,  there,  we  owe  it 
in  some  measure  to  God's  ordering,  when  He 
cradled  Emmanuel  in  a  Hebrew  home. 

But  between   the    Hebrew  outlook  on   nature 


BLOOM  OF  THE  WORLD'  23 

in  the  Old  Testament,  and  the  outlook  of  Jesus 
as  we  find  it  in  the  gospels,  there  is  one  marked 
difference  that  we  cannot  note  too  closely.  There 
is  one  contrast  which  no  one  can  fail  to  remark, 
who  reads  the  prophets  and  the  psalms  and  then 
turns  to  the  gospels.  In  the  psalms  the  world 
is  magnificent  and  terrible.  It  is  a  mighty 
pageant  of  grand  and  mysterious  forces.  We  see 
the  sun  there  rejoicing  like  a  strong  man  to  run 
his  race  ;  we  hear  the  rush  of  the  storm  as  it 
shatters  the  cedars  of  Lebanon.  The  sea  is  angry, 
its  waves  mount  up  to  heaven.  There  is  the  roll 
of  thunder  ;  there  is  the  flash  of  lightning.  You 
feel  that  clouds  and  darkness  are  never  far  away. 
It  is  a  vast  and  glorious  world — hardly  a  kindly 
one.  Now  turn  to  the  gospels,  and  do  you  note 
the  change  ?  Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field,  the 
fowls  of  the  air.  Behold  the  sower  goes  forth  to 
sow  in  the  spring  morning.  The  kingdom  of 
heaven  is  like  a  mustard-seed.  It  is  not  that  vast 
and  magnificent  things  are  disregarded,  and  the 
beauty  of  the  small  things  recognised.  That  is 
not  what  gives  us  the  sense  of  contrast  between  the 
nature  of  the  psalmist  and  of  Jesus.  It  is  rather 
that  the  world  is  a  much  kindlier  place ;  there  is 


24  *THE  WONDER  AND 

less  menace  in  its  terrific  powers.  It  is  still  as 
full  of  mystery  as  ever  ;  but  it  is  the  mystery  of 
love  now,  not  of  fear. 

Now  can  we  explain  that  deep  and  striking 
change?  It  is  quite  clear  that  nature  will  not 
explain  it.  Had  Jesus  lived  under  a  sunnier  sky 
or  amid  fairer  pastures  than  the  old  Hebrew 
psalmists,  we  might  think  that  the  change  was  due 
to  change  of  scene.  But  the  same  stars  looked 
down  on  Jesus  of  Nazareth  as  touched  into  music 
the  craving  heart  of  David  ;  and  the  same  wild 
storms  leapt  out  of  the  blue  heaven  as  have  given 
the  fire  and  rush  to  Hebrew  melody.  And  the 
hills  and  the  streams  and  the  gleaming  of  the  sea 
far  off,  these  were  the  same.  It  is  clear,  then,  that 
there  is  no  explanation  there. 

Nor  is  there  any — I  speak  with  loving  reverence 
of  One  to  whom  I  owe  so  much — nor  is  there  any 
explanation  in  the  change  of  persons.  I  mean 
that  had  the  lot  of  Jesus  been  a  kindly  lot,  I  could 
have  fathomed  His  kindly  view  of  nature.  Has 
not  Tennyson  sung  very  wisely  and  very  well — 

'  Gently  comes  the  world  to  those 
That  are  cast  in  gentle  mould  '  ?     - 

and  had  the  life  of  Jesus  been  a  life  of  ease  and 


BLOOM  OF  THE  WORLD'  25 

tenderness,  I  think  I  could  explain  his  view  of 
nature.  But  did  He  not  come  unto  His  own 
and  they  received  Him  not  ?  Was  He  not 
despised  and  rejected  of  men?  Were  there  no 
drops  of  sweat  like  blood  in  lone  Gethsemane? 
Was  there  no  cup  to  drink,  no  cross  to  bear  and 
die  on  ?  I  do  not  think  that  bitter  sorrows  like 
these  make  a  man  ready  to  consider  the  lilies. 
In  my  own  tragedies  the  world  grows  tragical.  I 
understand  the  storm  when  I  am  storm-tossed. 
But  to  Jesus,  misunderstood,  cross-burdened,  Man 
of  Sorrows,  nature  was  genial,  kindly,  homelike, 
to  the  end. 

Here  is  the  explanation  of  that  contrast.  It  is 
not  change  of  scene,  nor  change  of  circumstance. 
It  is  the  changed  thought  of  God  that  is  the 
secret.  To  prophet  and  psalmist,  no  less  than  to 
Jesus,  the  world  was  alive  and  quivering  with  God. 
But  to  prophet  and  .psalmist  God  was  Jehovah  ; 
to  Jesus  of  Nazareth  God  was  Father.  Twelve 
times  over  in  this  sixth  chapter  of  Matthew 
Christ  speaks  of  the  Creator  as  *  your  Father.' 
I  have  read  of  the  child  of  a  distinguished  English 
judge  who  was  rebuked  for  prattling  beside  the 
judge's  knee.     And  the  bairn  answered  :   *  Why 


26  *THE  WONDER  AND 

should  I  not?  He  may  be  your  judge,  but  he's 
my  father.'  So  when  the  thought  of  the  Creator, 
infinite  in  majesty,  was  deepened  and  softened  and 
glorified  in  Fatherhood,  the  mystery  of  fear  was 
swept  out  of  the  world,  and  the  gentle  mystery  of 
love  came  in.  It  was  a  Father  who  had  reared 
the  mountains.  There  was  a  Father's  hand  upon 
the  storm.  At  the  back  of  the  thunder,  no  less 
than  in  the  lilies,  there  was  a  Father's  heart,  a 
Father's  love.  It  was  that  glorious  truth  filling 
the  heart  of  Jesus  that  made  all  nature  what  it 
was  for  Him.     Perfect  love  had  cast  out  fear. 

In  the  city  of  Florence  there  is  an  old  building 
now  used  as  a  museum.  Six  hundred  years  ago 
it  was  a  palace,  and  on  the  altar  wall  of  its  chapel, 
sometime  about  1300,  Giotto  painted  a  portrait 
of  the  poet  Dante.  This  portrait,  the  only  one 
painted  during  the  poet's  lifetime,  is  of  inestim- 
able value.  But  the  building  fell  upon  evil  days  ; 
it  was  turned  into  a  jail  for  common  criminals  ; 
its  walls  were  coated  with  whitewash.  And  for 
centuries  under  this  covering  the  face  of  Dante 
was  hidden,  until  its  existence  was  wellnigh 
forgotten.  But  in  1840  three  gentlemen,  one  of 
them  an  Englishman,  set  to  work  and  discovered 


BLOOM  OF  THE  WORLD*  27 

the  lost  likeness.  And  now  the  old  prison-wall  is 
full  of  glory  because  the  lineaments  of  the  great 
poet  shine  out  there.  Ah,  yes,  if  a  common  wall 
is  quite  transfigured  when  the  likeness  of  Dante 
is  discovered  on  it,  no  wonder  that  a  common 
flower  is  glorified  when  it  reveals — as  it  did  to 
Christ — the  Father.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  be 
alive  to  beauty  ;  but  men  were  alive  to  beauty 
before  Jesus  lived.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  feel  the 
mystery  of  nature  ;  but  men  had  felt  all  that  in 
paganism.  What  Jesus  did  was  to  take  the  truth 
of  Fatherhood,  and  touch  every  bird  and  every 
lily  with  it,  till  beauty  deepened  into  brotherhood, 
and  we  and  the  world  were  mystically  kin.  '  When 
I  consider  the  heavens,'  said  the  psalmist,  *  then 
say  I,  what  is  man  that  Thou  art  mindful  of  him? ' 
But  Jesus,  just  to  reassure  us  of  God's  mindful- 
ness, says,  '  Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field.* 

Such,  then,  was  the  secret  of  nature  for  our 
Lord.  And  now  I  have  a  word  to  say  upon  one 
other  point.  I  want  you  to  observe  how  con- 
stantly and  simply  our  Lord  used  nature  in  the 
interests  of  morals.  Our  outlook  on  nature  is 
very  largely  emotional.  We  make  it  a  mirror  to 
reflect  our  moods.     If  we  are  happy,  then  all   the 


2  8  *  THE  WONDER  AND 

world  is  happy.  But  if  we  are  sad,  then  even  the 
banks  and  braes  o'  bonny  Doon  '  mind  me  o' 
departed  joys,  Departed — never  to  return.'  Now 
all  that  is  very  natural,  I  doubt  not ;  and  it  is  a 
witness  to  the  grandeur  of  our  human  story  that 
we  make  every  stream  and  every  sunset  echo  it. 
But  in  the  life  of  Jesus  there  is  little  of  that ;  it 
is  the  moral  helpfulness  of  nature  that  He  seizes. 
Burns  wondered  how  the  flowers  could  bloom 
when  he  was  so  weary.  That  is  the  emotional 
outlook  on  the  world.  Tennyson  said  :  '  Flower 
in  the  crannied  wall,  could  I  but  understand  thee, 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is.'  That  is 
the  intellectual  outlook  on  the  world.  But  Jesus 
said  :  '  Why  take  ye  thought  for  raiment  ?  Con- 
sider the  lilies  of  the  field,'  and  that  is  neither 
emotional  nor  intellectual ;  it  is  moral.  I  do  not 
mean  that  Jesus  was  blind  to  the  other  aspects  ; 
but  I  do  mean  that  He  centred  His  thought  on 
that.  For  the  soul  and  the  life  and  the  individual 
character — these  things  were  so  transcendently 
important  to  Christ  Jesus,  that  everything  else 
must  be  impressed  into  their  service.  In  these 
glorious  June  days  we  are  apt  to  grow  a  little  dull 
to  what  is  highest.     Just  to  be  alive  is   such  a 


BLOOM  OF  THE  WORLD'  29 

sweet  thing  now,  that  the  hope  and  the  resolve  of 
sterner  moods  take  to  themselves  wings  and  fly 
away.  Do  not  forget  the  earnestness  of  Christ. 
Do  not  forget  that  out  in  the  summer  fields  this 
was  His  aim — to  fashion  noble,  trustful,  reverent 
disciples.  We  must  have  room  for  the  lilies  of 
the  field  no  less  than  for  Gethsemane ;  we  must 
remember  the  birds  not  less  than  the  bread 
and  wine,  if  the  whole  ministry  of  Christ  is  to 
be  operative  in  winning  us  to  some  likeness  of 
Himself. 

It  is  notable,  too,  that  as  Jesus*  life  advanced, 
and  as  the  shadows  upon  His  path  grew  darker, 
we  find  no  trace  that  Jesus  outgrew  nature,  or 
passed  beyond  the  power  of  its  teaching.  I  think 
we  have  most  of  us  had  hours  when  nature  seemed 
to  desert  us.  She  became  dumb  and  had  no  heal- 
ing for  us.  It  may  have  been  the  hour  of  a  great 
sorrow,  or  a  great  crisis  in  our  life's  career.  And 
I  think  that  most  of  us  have  had  moods  and  feel- 
ings which  we  thought  that  nature  was  powerless 
to  interpret.  She  could  not  enter  into  our  weary 
problems.  So  as  our  life  goes  on  we  drift  away 
from  nature,  and  nature  silently  drifts  away  from 
us.     But  what  I  want  you  to  note  is  that  though 


30 


THE  WONDER  AND 


that  happens  with  us,  there  is  no  trace  that  it  ever 
happened  with  Jesus.  Here  on  the  hillside  He  is 
speaking  of  providence,  and  He  says,  '  Consider 
the  lilies  of  the  field.'  Then  follows  the  preaching 
of  the  kingdom  throughout  Galilee,  and  '  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  is  like  a  mustard-seed.'  Then 
the  shadow  of  Calvary  falls,  and  the  awful  death 
that  is  coming — can  nature  interpret  and  illuminate 
that  darkness  ?  *  Except  a  corn  of  wheat  fall  into 
the  ground  and  die,  it  abideth  alone.'  And  where 
did  Christ  agonise  ^  Was  it  in  the  upper  room  ^ 
He  went  into  a  place  where  was  a  garden.  And 
in  the  exultant  joy  of  resurrection  morning,  did 
He  hasten  away  into  the  city  ^  He  waited  till 
Mary  supposed  He  was  the  gardener.  Right 
on,  then,  through  the  wealth  of  all  His  teaching, 
right  on  through  His  suffering  and  death  and 
rising,  the  voices  of  the  natural  world  appealed  to 
Jesus.  Nature  may  seem  to  fail  us  before  the 
end,  but  it  never  deserted  Jesus  Christ. 

And  the  reason  is  not  very  far  to  seek.  *  I  came 
to  do  Thy  will,  O  God.'  It  was  the  childlike 
heart,  absolutely  true,  never  swerving  by  a  hair's- 
breadth  from  the  line  of  duty,  it  was  His  perfect 
obedience   to  a   Father's  will  that  kept  Jesus  in 


BLOOM  OF  THE  WORLD'  31 

perfect  touch  with  His  Father's  world.  Do  you 
remember  how  Wordsworth,  speaking  of  the 
man  who  does  his  duty,  says : 

'  Flowers  laugh  before  thee  in  their  beds 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads'  ? 

He  means  that  nature  ceases  to  be  musical  when 
we  are  anywhere  else  than  on  the  path  of  duty. 
Here,  then,  is  the  secret  of  a  happy  summer,  in 
which  all  the  world  and  you  shall  be  in  comrade- 
ship. It  is  to  be  patient,  brave,  unselfi>h,  kind, 
and  loyal.  It  is  to  accept  the  cross.  It  is  to  be 
true.  To  see  the  beautiful,  you  must  be  dutiful. 
It  is  a  most  strange  world.  '  Blessed  are  the 
pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God  ' — even  in 
the  lilies  of  the  field. 


MISTAKEN    MAGNITUDES 

Ve  blind  guides,  which  strain  at  a  gnat,  and  swallow  a  camel. — 
Matt,  xxiii.  24. 

It  was  one  great  complaint  of  our  Lord  against 
the  Pharisees,  that  they  had  lost  the  relative 
magnitude  of  things.  They  were  very  much  in 
earnest  about  that  Jewish  law  ;  but  for  all  that 
they  had  sadly  misinterpreted  the  law.  They 
laid  great  stress  upon  the  infinitely  little,  until 
the  weightier  matters  of  it  passed  out  of  sight. 
They  magnified  trifles — husbanded  their  rush- 
lights till  they  forgot  that  the  stars  were  in  the 
sky.  It  is  that  spirit  which  Jesus  is  rebuking  in 
the  familiar  proverb  of  our  text.  Ye  blind  guides, 
(this  is  what  He  means)  cannot  you  see  that  some 
things  are  great  and  some  are  little  ?  If  there  are 
larger  and  lesser  lights  in  the  great  heavens,  will 
there  not  be  kindred  differences  in  God's  other 
firmaments  ?  It  is  the  evil  of  not  seeing  things 
in  true  proportion  that  is  present  to  the  mind  of 
Jesus  Christ. 


MISTAKEN  MAGNITUDES  33 

Now  it  is  on  that  subject  that  I  wish  to  speak 
to-night ;  for  one  of  the  great  arts  of  worthy 
living  is  to  see  things  in  their  relative  importance. 
I  have  known  so  many  who  failed  in  what  was 
worthiest,  not  because  they  were  weaker  than 
their  neighbours — for  the  strongest  of  us  is  piti- 
fully weak — they  failed  not  because  they  were 
weaker  than  the  others,  but  because  they  never 
seemed  able  to  grasp  the  difference  between  things 
that  were  really  great  and  really  little.  Mr. 
Froude,  in  his  Spanish  Story  of  the  Armada, 
makes  a  significant  remark  about  the  Spanish 
king.  He  is  showing  the  incompetence  of 
Philip  II.,  and  he  says  :  '  the  smallest  thing  and 
the  largest  seemed  to  occupy  him  equally.'  That 
was  one  mark  of  Philip  the  Second's  incompetence. 
That  gave  the  worst  of  all  possible  starts  to  the 
Armada.  And  for  the  equipping  of  nobler  vessels 
than  these  galleons,  and  the  fighting  of  sterner 
battles  than  they  fought,  that  spirit  spells  incom- 
petency still.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  know  a  trifle 
when  you  meet  it.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  know  that 
gossamer  is  gossamer.  It  is  equally  great,  when 
the  decisive  moment  comes,  to  seize  it  and  use  it 
with   every  power  of  manhood.      It  is  such  swift 

c 


34  MISTAKEN  MAGNITUDES 

distinguishing  between  the  great  and  little,  such 
vision  of  the  relative  magnitude  of  things,  that  is 
one  secret  of  a  quiet  and  conquering  life. 

Now  I  think  that  this  gift  of  seeing  things  in 
their  true  magnitudes  is  very  difficult  to  exercise 
to-day.  We  live  in  such  a  hurried  fashion  now, 
that  we  have  little  leisure  to  take  these  moral 
measurements.  When  I  am  travelling  sixty  miles 
an  hour  in  the  express,  I  have  very  hazy  thoughts 
about  the  country.  Villages,  towns,  meadows, 
woods,  go  flashing  by,  but  the  speed  is  too  fierce 
for  accurate  observing.  So  with  our  lives  to-day; 
they  hurry  forward  so.  The  morning  paper  has 
hardly  been  unfolded,  when  the  children  are  cry- 
ing the  evening  paper  in  the  streets.  The  wide 
world's  news  comes  crowding  in  on  us  ;  we  are 
spectators  of  an  endless  panorama.  And  all  this 
change,  and  movement,  and  variety,  while  it  makes 
men  more  eager,  more  intense  and  responsive, 
is  not  conducive  to  a  well-balanced  judgment. 
We  are  a  great  deal  sharper  now  than  men  were 
once.  I  do  not  think  we  are  a  great  deal  deeper. 
It  is  the  still  waters  that  run  deep,  and  stillness 
is  hardly  a  characteristic  of  the  city.  I  have  often 
been  humbled,  when  I  lived  among  them,  at  the 


MISTAKEN   MAGNITUDES  35 

wise  judgment  of  some  Highland  shepherd. 
The  man  was  not  clever  ;  he  read  little  but  his 
Bible  ;  his  brilliant  son  was  home  with  his  prizes 
from  college,  and  I  dare  say,  in  the  eyes  of  his 
brilliant  son,  the  father  was  fifty  years  behind  the 
times.  But  you  get  the  shepherd  on  to  moral 
questions,  on  to  the  relative  magnitude  of  things, 
and  spite  of  all  the  Greek  and  Latin  of  the  prize- 
winner— and  the  father  is  infinitely  proud  of  these 
bright  eyes — spite  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  of  the 
son,  you  recognise  the  father  as  the  greater  man. 
Something  has  come  to  him  amid  the  silent  hills  ; 
the  spirit  of  the  lonely  moor  has  touched  him  ;  he 
has  wrestled  with  a  few  great  truths,  a  few  great 
sorrows,  alone,  amid  the  rolling  miles  of  heather. 
And  it  is  that  discipline  of  thoughtful  quietude, 
controlling  and  purifying  the  moral  judgment, 
that  puts  the  keenest  intellect  to  shame. 

This  failure  to  see  things  in  their  true  propor- 
tions is  often  seen  in  relation  to  our  grievances. 
When  a  man  has  a  grievance — and  many  men  have 
them — he  is  almost  certain  to  have  distorted  vision. 
You  can  block  out  the  sun  by  the  smallest  coin  if 
you  hold  the  coin  near  ©nough  to  the  eye.  And 
we  have  a  way  of  dwelling  on  our  grievances,  till 


26  MISTAKEN  MAGNITUDES 

we  lose  sight  of  the  blue  heaven  above  us.  How 
ready  we  are  to  brood  on  petty  insults  !  How 
we  take  them  home  with  us  and  nurse  and  fondle 
them  !  How  we  are  stung  by  trifling  neglects  ! 
A  little  discourtesy,  and  our  soul  begins  to  fester  ! 
And  though  hearts  are  just  as  warm  to  us  to-day 
as  they  were  yesterday,  when  we  responded  to 
them  ;  and  though  the  great  tides  of  the  deep 
love  of  God  rise  to  their  flood,  still,  on  every 
shore,  it  is  strange  how  a  man  will  be  blind  to  all 
the  glory, when  a  little  bitterness  is  rankling  within. 
We  are  all  adepts  at  counting  up  our  grievances. 
Open  a  new  column  and  count  your  mercies  now. 
It  is  supremely  important  to  see  things  in  their 
magnitudes,  and  perhaps  you  have  never  learned 
that  lesson  yet.  The  man  who  suspects  is  always 
judging  wrongly.  A  jealous  woman  sees  every- 
thing out  of  focus.  If  there  be  any  virtue,  if 
there  be  any  praise,  think  on  these  things,  says  the 
apostle. 

Of  course  I  am  aware  that  the  failure  to  see 
things  in  their  true  proportions  has  sometimes 
got  physical  and  not  moral  roots.  There  come 
days  when  the  grasshopper  proves  itself  a  burden, 
and  the  simple  reason  is  that  we  are  weary.     Let 


MISTAKEN  MAGNITUDES  37 

a  man  be  vigorous,  and  strong,  and  well,  and  he 
can  take  the  measurement  of  his  worries  very 
easily.  But  when  he  is  fagged  with  the  winter 
toil  of  a  great  city  we  know  what  alarming  pro- 
portions trifles  take.  It  is  well  that  a  man  should 
remember  in  such  moments  that  this  is  the  body 
of  our  humiliation.  Christ  understood  that  matter 
thoroughly — *  Come  ye  apart,'  He  said,  *  and  rest 
awhile.'  The  disciples  were  overstrung  and  over- 
wrought, and  the  tact  and  tenderness  of  Jesus 
dealt  with  that.  What  the  men  wanted  was  a 
little  rest.  Never  accept  the  verdict  of  your 
weariness.  Never  judge  anything  when  you  are 
tired.  We  are  so  apt  to  be  jaundiced  and  think 
bitter  things,  when  all  that  we  want  is  a  little  rest 
and  sunshine.  All  that  will  come,  the  birds  will 
sing  again  ;  the  dew  of  May  morning  will  sparkle 
on  the  grass.  We  shall  see  things  in  their  true 
proportions  then.  Meantime  trust  thou  in  God, 
and  play  the  man. 

In  this  connection,  too,  I  find  a  gleam  of  glory 
in  the  beneficent  efl^ects  of  sleep.  Of  all  the 
secondary  ministries  of  God  for  helping  us  to  sec 
things  as  they  are,  there  is  none  quite  so  wonder- 
ful as  sleep.      Wc  go  to  rest  troubled,  perplexed, 


38  MISTAKEN  MAGNITUDES 

despondent.  We  cannot  see  how  we  shall  get 
through  at  all.  But  when  we  waken,  how  different 
things  are !  Sleep  has  knit  up  the  ravelled  sleeve 
of  care.  Now,  Jesus  loved  to  speak  of  death  as 
sleep.  He  seems  to  have  kept  that  word  death 
in  reserve,  as  the  name  for  something  darker  and 
more  terrible.  Tennyson  talks  of  '  the  death  that 
cannot  die,'  and  I  think  that  is  what  Jesus  meant 
by  death.  Our  ^  death/  for  Christ,  was  sleep,  and 
sleep  is  the  passage  to  a  glad  awaking.  Shall 
not  that  sleep  do  for  us  what  to-night's  will  do, 
and  help  us  to  see  things  truly  in  the  morning  } 
Then  we  shall  know  even  as  we  are  known. 
There  will  be  no  mistaken  magnitudes  in  heaven. 
There  will  be  iio  errors  in  proportion  there.  We 
shall  no  longer  be  blind  to  the  relative  importance 
of  things  that  confused  us  when  we  fell  asleep. 
The  love  at  home  that  we  despised  down  here, 
and  the  selfishness  that  made  those  whom  we  loved 
unhappy,  and  the  work  we  tried  to  do  with  so 
much  failure,  and  the  exquisite  joys,  and  the 
bitterness  of  tears — all  these  we  shall  see  at  last 
in  their  true  magnitudes  when  we  awaken  in  the 
eternal  morning. 

Meantime  we   are   on  this  side   of  the   grave. 


MISTAKEN  MAGNITUDES  39 

There  are  heavy  mists  lying  along  the  valley.  I 
want  to  ask,  then^  what  are  the  gospel  powers  that 
help  a  man  to  see  things  as  they  are  ? 

First,  then,  remember  that  the  gospel  which  we 
preach  puts  love  at  the  very  centre  of  our  life. 
It  makes  all  the  difference  what  you  put  first  and 
foremost,  and  the  gospel  of  Jesus  Christ  puts  love 
there.  That  was  the  tragedy  of  these  poor 
Pharisees.  It  is  always  a  tragedy  when  love  dies 
out.  When  anything  else  than  love  is  at  the 
centre,  the  gnats  and  the  camels  are  certain  to 
get  mixed.  For  love  alone  sees  purely,  clearly, 
deeply.  Love  always  seeks  the  best  interpreta- 
tion. Love  never  makes  the  most  of  petty  faults. 
The  windows  of  love  are  of  the  finest  glass. 
And  it  is  that  spirit  of  loving  interpretation  that 
helps  a  Christian  to  see  things  as  they  are.  If 
without  love  I  never  can  know  God,  then  without 
love  I  never  can  know  anything.  For  every 
blackthorn  that  breaks  into  snow-white  blossom, 
and  every  bird  that  is  winging  its  way  from  Africa, 
and  every  human  heart,  however  vile,  has  some- 
thing of  the  Creator  in  its  being.  Take  away 
God,  and  things  are  chaos  to  me.  And  without 
love,  I    never  can  know  God.      You  understand. 


40  MISTAKEN  MAGNITUDES 

then,  the  wisdom  of  Jesus  Christ  in  putting  love 
at  the  centre  of  our  life.  It  focuses  everything. 
It  links  the  little  and  the  great  with  the  Creator, 
and  brings  things  to  their  relative  importance. 

And  then  the  gospel  takes  our  threescore  years 
and  ten  and  lays  them  against  the  background  of 
eternity.  And  a  life  is  like  a  painting  in  this 
respect,  a  great  deal  depends  upon  the  back- 
ground. Are  there  any  artists  here  to-night  ? 
You  have  been  charged  with  making  your 
colouring  too  strong.  Men  say  it  is  a  beautiful 
and  powerful  picture,  but  the  hill,  and  the  sun- 
set, and  the  breaking  waves,  were  never  so  intense 
and  vivid  as  that.  The  likelihood  is  that  they  are 
far  more  vivid  ;  but  the  hills  and  the  sunsets  are 
not  framed^  in  nature.  Your  canvas  has  got  to 
end  abruptly ;  but  nothing  in  nature  ever  ends 
like  that.  Things  stretch  away  into  infinite  dis- 
tances there.  There  is  not  a  tree  and  there  is 
not  a  wave  but  is  part  of  the  one  grand  colour- 
scheme  of  God.  And  it  is  because  you  have  to 
isolate  a  little  part,  and  take  it  out  of  its  setting  in 
the  expanse,  that  men  will  tell  you  sometimes  it  is 
exaggerated.  Do  you  not  think  the  same  charges 
will  be  made  when  we  isolate  our  threescore  years 


MISTAKEN  MAGNITUDES  41 

and  ten  ?  The  colours  will  always  be  too  bright, 
too  dark,  unless  we  remember  the  eternal  setting. 
And  it  is  because  Christ  has  brought  immortality 
to  light  that  the  Christian  sees  things  in  their  true 
proportions.  I  bid  you  remember  that  eternal 
prospect.  The  efforts  and  strivings  of  our  three- 
score years  are  not  adjusted  to  the  scale  of  seventy, 
they  are  adjusted  to  the  scale  of  immortality. 
This  life  is  not  the  opera,  it  is  the  overture. 
It  is  not  the  book,  it  is  the  first  chapter  of  the 
book.  A  man  must  be  wakeful  to  his  eternal 
destiny  if  he  would  know  the  magnitude  of 
things. 

And  then  the  gospel  brings  us  into  fellowship 
with  Christ,  and  that  is  our  last  great  lesson  in 
proportion.  The  heart  that  takes  its  measure- 
ments from  Jesus  is  likely  to  be  pretty  near 
the  truth.  A  great  deal  depends  on  the  kind 
of  company  you  keep,  as  to  what  things  are 
to  be  important  to  you,  and  what  not.  It  is 
one  of  the  hardest  tasks  of  every  earnest  man 
quietly  to  scorn  the  measurements  of  the  world, 
and  in  that  task  we  are  mightily  helped  by  Christ. 
His  comradeship  reinforces  the  true  standards. 
There  is  a  scale  of  worth  in  the  teaching  of  Christ 


42  MISTAKEN  MAGNITUDES 

Jesus  to  which  the  spirit  instantly  responds. 
Cherish  that  comradeship.  Live  in  that  glorious 
presence.  Take  your  measure  of  the  worth  of 
things  from  the  Redeemer.  And  when  the 
journey  is  over,  and  the  hill  is  climbed,  and 
you  look  back  out  of  the  cloudless  dawn,  I 
think  you  will  find  that  in  the  fellowship  of  Christ 
you  have  been  saved  from  many  a  mistaken 
magnitude. 


LAUGHTER  AND  SORROW 

Even  in  laughtar  the  heart  is  sorrowful. — Prov.  xiv,  13. 

Few  men  have  had  larger  experience  of  life  than 
Solomon,  and  few  have  directed  a  more  penetrat- 
ing gaze  on  the  strange  drama  that  was  unfolding 
round  them.  The  court  of  kings  is  a  proverbial 
theatre  of  human  nature,  and  Solomon  was 
familiar  with  court  life  all  his  days.  He  had 
known  saints  of  God  like  his  own  father  David. 
He  had  been  in  touch  with  men  and  women  of 
all  nations.  Our  text,  then,  is  not  the  utterance 
of  a  recluse,  but  of  one  who  had  large  experience 
of  humanity. 

And  it  is  notable  that,  for  the  writers  of  His 
Bible,  it  was  such  men  whom  God  generally  chose. 
It  was  not  hermits,  nor  men  who  dwelt  apart 
from  the  great  stir,  who  were  honoured  by  Heaven 
to  be  Heaven's  penmen.  It  was  men  who  had 
known  the  strain  and  stress  of  living,  who  had 
borne    the    burdens   of   that   complex    task,   who 

43 


44         LAUGHTER  AND  SORROW 

had  entered  largely  into  the  joy  and  sorrow  that 
blend  in  the  light  and  shadow  of  the  crowd. 
Moses  was  no  stranger  to  the  rich  life  of  Egypt. 
David  had  passed  from  shepherding  to  kingship. 
The  prophets  of  Israel  were  inspired  statesmen, 
intensely  alive  to  the  needs  and  to  the  trend  of 
the  national  life  in  which  they  found  themselves. 
And  Paul  was  at  home  in  any  company. 

Now  do  you  see  the  reason  of  this  choice  of 
instruments  ?  I  do  not  think  that  it  is  far  to 
seek.  It  is  that  we  might  catch  the  accent  of  a 
brother's  voice,  and  feel  the  impress  of  a  brother's 
hand,  in  the  Word  divine  which  comes  to  lead  us 
heavenward.  The  greatest  books  do  not  speak 
to  us  as  strangers.  They  are  not  voices  from 
regions  where  we  have  never  journeyed.  They 
interpret  and  illuminate  these  inarticulate  longings 
in  us,  which  crave  for  utterance  yet  cannot  find  it. 
And  the  Bible  is  the  greatest  of  the  great  in  that 
sense,  that  it  pulsates  and  throbs  with  sweet  and 
mysterious  brotherhood.  It  was  vitally  necessary, 
if  this  book  were  to  grip,  that  it  should  not  reach 
the  heart  as  something  alien.  And  one  of  God's 
methods  for  making  that  impossible  was  to  use 
Solomon  and  the  prophets  and  Paul  as  messengers. 


LAUGHTER  AND  SORROW 


45 


So  to  our  text  then.  And  there  are  three 
truths  that  flash  on  me  out  of  it.  The  first  is 
the  difference  between  outward  and  inward  life. 
Even  in  laughter — Hark !  how  it  rings  and 
echoes  !  Is  it  not  the  sign  and  index  of  a  cloud- 
less heart  ?  But  even  in  laughter,  says  Solomon, 
the  heart  is  sorrowful.  He  is  thinking  of  the 
duality  of  life. 

Now  that  is  one  of  the  discoveries  we  make 
with  growing  intimacy.  It  is  part  of  the  joy,  and 
part  of  the  pain,  of  friendship,  that  it  comes  to 
find  under  the  outward  habit  a  world  of  things 
it  never  suspected  once.  No  men  or  women 
worthy  of  the  name  would  wear  their  heart  upon 
their  sleeve  *  for  daws  to  peck  at.'  There  is  a 
reserve  which  is  inseparable  from  true  dignity, 
in  the  common  intercourse  of  daily  life.  But  as 
intimacy  ripens  the  barriers  are  broken,  glimpses 
are  had  of  things  we  never  dreamed  of ;  there 
are  hills  that  reach  heavenward,  and  valleys  strewn 
with  boulders,  there  are  ripening  harvests,  and 
gardens  with  a  grave  in  them,  all  in  the  mystical 
country  of  the  heart  ;  and  we  were  walking  in 
darkness  and  we  never  saw  them,  till  the  sunrise 
of  friendship  quickened  in  the  east.      You  never 


46  LAUGHTER  AND  SORROW 

would  have  thought,  when  you  first  met  him,  that 
that  rough  and  rude  and  somewhat  boisterous 
man  had  a  heart  as  tender  as  a  httle  child's. 
And  you  may  meet  a  woman  casually  twenty 
times,  and  she  is  always  bright  and  always 
interested  ;  it  is  only  long  afterwards  that  you 
discover  that  there  was  a  shrouded  cross  and  a 
hidden  sorrow  there.  That,  then,  is  one  of  the 
gains  and  pains  of  friendship  :  it  reveals  to  us  the 
/  duality  of  life. 

Now  in  all  our  Lord's  dealing  with  men  and 
women  we  feel  that  this  difference  between  the 
outward  and  the  inward  was  before  Him.  You 
will  not  grasp  the  influence  of  Jesus,  in  all  its 
wonderful  impact  on  mankind,  unless  you  bear  in 
mind  this  strange  duality.  I  do  not  refer  to  the 
methods  of  our  Saviour  in  dealing  with  those  who 
were  consciously  insincere.  Christ  unmasked 
hypocrites  instantly  and  terribly  :  the  Light  was 
far  too  strong  for  that  disguise.  What  I  mean 
is  that  under  all  outward  seeming  our  Lord 
discerned  the  struggle  of  the  heart ;  He  was 
never  misled  by  laughter  or  by  speech ;  He 
never  ignored  all  that  we  cannot  utter.  And 
if  the  woman  of  Samaria  felt  that  she  had  found 


Laughter  and  sorrow       47 

a  friend  ;  if  Zaccheus  was  not  despised,  nor 
Matthew  scorned  ;  if  the  lawless  and  intractable 
zealot  was  redeemed  ;  if  Peter  was  ransomed  and 
rescued  from  himself — there  was  the  insight  of 
love  in  it,  the  genius  of  the  heart  ;  there  was 
the  knowledge  that  life  is  deeper,  richer,  sadder, 
than  is  ever  to  be  gathered  from  a  surface- 
view. 

Tliat,  then,  is  the  first  truth  in  our  text.  The 
second  is  this  :  Sorrow  and  joy  are  strangely  knit 
together.  Even  in  laughter  the  heart  is  sorrow- 
ful. 

If  you  have  ever  lived  in  a  little  town  or 
village  you  know  how  life  is  intermingled  there. 
The  classes  are  not  separated  as  in  the  cities  ; 
they  blend  insensibly  into  one  another.  Children 
of  all  stations  go  to  school  together ;  the  better- 
off  have  companions  in  very  humble  homes ; 
the  banker  and  the  blacksmith  will  be  excellent 
friends. 

Now  all  that  intermingling  of  a  more  primitive 
life  resembles  the  intermingling  of  our  being. 
We  are  each  of  us  knit  together  into  unity  by 
bonds  too  subtle  for  any  to  detect.  How  often 
a  man's  faults   are  virtues  in  excess  !      How   all 


48  LAUGHTER  AND  SORROW 

that  is  darkest  interweaves  with  what  is  brightest ! 
It  is  that  intermingling  of  the  light  and  shadow 
that  makes  the  moral  government  of  life  so 
intricate.  And  could  anything  be  more  opposed 
than  joy  to  sorrow  ?  There  seems  to  be  a  broad 
world  between  the  two.  The  one  is  sunshine, 
the  other  is  cloud.  The  one  is  music,  the  other 
is  a  cry.  The  one  is  the  summer-time  bathed  in 
warmth  and  light,  the  other  is  the  wailing  of  the 
wind  in  the  late  autumn.  Surely  there  can  be 
no  kinship  of  these  two.''  Ah,  yes  !  even  in 
laughter  the  heart  is  sorrowful.  There  is  a 
mystical  union  between  our  smiles  and  tears. 
Solomon  saw,  what  you  and  I  have  seen,  that 
sorrow  and  joy  are  strangely  knit  together. 

We  see  this  in  the  lives  of  our  greatest  men, 
for  instance.  It  is  one  of  the  lessons  we  learn 
from  great  biographies.  The  greatest  are  very 
seldom  solemn,  and  certainly  they  are  almost 
never  joyless.  Mohammed  had  drunk  deep  of 
the  sorrows  of  mankind,  yet  '  Mohammed,'  says 
a  Scottish  professor  in  a  very  charming  essay, 
'  Mohammed  had  that  indispensable  requisite  of 
a  great  man,  he  could  laugh.*  Luther  was 
plunged  into  a  sea  of  trouble,  yet  the   laughter 


LAUGHTER  AND  SORROW  49 

of  Luther  was  notoriously  boisterous.  The  latest 
biographer  of  Lord  Tennyson — Sir  Alfred  Lyall 
— says  that  the  laughter  of  Tennyson  was 
triumphant  ;  yet  it  was  Tennyson  who  wrote 
the  In  Memoriam.  True  joy  is  not  the  mere 
escape  from  sorrow.  It  may  be  that  the  capacity 
for  gladness  is  but  the  other  side  of  the  capacity 
for  pain.  In  the  lives  of  the  greatest,  then,  we 
learn  this  lesson,  that  sorrow  and  joy  are  strangely 
knit  together. 

We  find  this  also  in  our  own  greatest  moments, 
when  the  fire  of  life  flashes  up  in  some  fierce 
intensity.  When  the  heart  throbs,  and  feeling  is 
enkindled,  and  every  nerve  is  quivering  with 
emotion,  we  scarcely  know  if  we  are  sorry  or 
glad.  It  is  a  master-touch  of  our  master 
dramatist  that  in  the  very  heart  of  his  tragedies 
you  will  have  some  fool  or  jester.  It  means  far 
more  than  a  mere  relief  from  the  agony ;  it  means 
that  the  light  and  the  shadow  are  akin.  Has  no 
one,  after  some  great  hour,  said  this  to  you  :  '  I 
did  not  know  whether  to  laugh  or  cry  *  ^  It 
ought  to  have  been  an  hour  of  exquisite  gladness, 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  gladness  came  the  tears. 
I  see  from   the   newspapers   that   this   is  a  great 

D 


50         LAUGHTER  AND  SORROW 

time  for  marriages  ;  and  if  there  is  any  day  in 
life  that  should  be  cloudless,  would  you  not 
expect  it  to  be  the  day  of  bridal  ?  Yet  even  in 
the  marriage-service  comes  the  shadow,  *  Until 
God  shall  separate  the  twain  by  death.'  That, 
then,  is  one  mark  of  our  greatest  hours.  They 
intermingle  and  interfuse  these  opposites.  There 
have  come  moments  to  every  one  of  us, 
when  sorrow  and  joy  were  strangely  knit 
together. 

And  do  you  not  think  that  is  true  of  Jesus 
Christ  ^  It  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  that 
perfect  life.  He  was  a  Man  of  sorrows  and 
acquainted  with  grief;  His  soul  was  exceeding 
sorrowful,  even  unto  death.  Yet  through  it  all, 
and  in  the  midst  of  it,  our  adorable  Lord  is 
talking  of  His  joy.  Do  you  remember  the 
Mount  of  Transfiguration  ^  Was  it  not  an  hour 
of  spiritual  glory?  Whatever  else  it  was,  and 
it  was  much  else,  it  was  the  herald  and  harbinger 
of  resurrection  gladness.  Yet  even  in  that  hour 
there  was  the  agony  :  they  spake  of  the  decease 
He  should  accomplish  at  Jerusalem.  *  My  joy' 
— and  yet  He  was  the  Man  of  sorrows.  '  My 
peace  ' — and  yet  *  Why  hast  Thou  forsaken  Me  ? ' 


LAUGHTER  AND  SORROW  51 

Sorrow  and  joy  are  strangely  knit  together  in  the 
human  experience  of  Jesus  Christ. 

That,  then,  is  the  second  truth.  And  now,  very 
briefly,  the  third  and  the  deepest  is  this.  Sorrow 
lies  nearer  to  the  heart  of  life  than  joy.  Even  in 
laughter  the  heart  is  sorrowful  :  at  the  back  of  all 
there  is  the  hearths  unrest. 

Now  I  think  that  even  language  bears  this  out; 
and  language  becomes  very  illuminative  when  we 
study  it.  We  never  talk  about  a  heavy  joy  :  we 
only  talk  about  a  heavy  grief.  Happiness  bubbles 
up  or  ripples  over  ;  there  is  some  suggestion  of 
the  surface  in  it.  But  sorrow  is  heavy,  and  what 
that  implies  is  this,  that  when  God  casts  it  into 
the  sea  of  life  it  sinks  by  its  own  weight  into  the 
deeps.  Joy  is  most  real,  thank  God,  intensely 
real.  It  is  only  the  pessimist  who  would  call  joy 
a  mockery.  But  underneath  all  laughter  is  a  pain, 
a  craving  that  gnaws,  a  sorrow  we  cannot  baffle  ; 
even  in  our  language  there  is  the  sad  suggestion 
that  sorrow  lies  nearer  to  the  heart  of  life  than  joy. 

I  sometimes  think  that  our  Lord  had  this  in 
mind  when  He  said  in  His  sermon,  *  Blessed  are 
they  that  mourn.*  They  were  to  be  comforted  in 
far  other  and  nobler  ways  than  any  one  on  that 


52         LAUGHTER  AND  SORROW 

hillside  understood.  The  mourner  is  blessed,  not 
merely  because  hands  may  be  held  out  to  him,  and 
not  because  the  roughest  may  grow  kind.  But 
he  is  blessed  because  sorrow  sounds  the  deeps,  and 
if  rightly  taken  makes  the  surface-life  impossible. 
For  sorrow  lies  nearer  to  the  heart  of  life  than  joy, 
and  to  get  near  life's  heart  is  always  blessed. 

But  whether  that  be  so  or  not,  this  one  thing 
I  see  clearly.  Unless  this  proverb  of  Solomon 
prove  itself  true,  the  cross  is  not  life's  true  inter- 
pretation. In  the  centre  of  history  stands  the 
cross  of  Calvary,  and  the  cross  is  the  epitome  of 
woe.  And  if  life's  deepest  secret  be  gladness  and 
not  sorrow,  if  laughter  run  deeper  into  the  heart 
than  tears,  then  the  cross,  that  professes  to  touch 
the  deepest  depths,  can  be  nothing  but  a  tragical 
mistake.  I  do  not  think  that  we  have  found  it 
so.  I  do  not  think  that  the  cross  has  ever  failed 
us.  The  deepest  music  that  our  heart  ever  uttered 
has  blended  and  chimed  with  the  sad  strain  of 
Calvary.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  have  a  man  like 
Solomon  telling  us  that  even  in  laughter  the 
heart  is  sorrowful.  But  it  is  greater  still  to  have 
a  risen  Saviour,  who  sealed  that  in  the  sorrow 
of  the  Cross. 


THE   PAGAN   DUTY   OF   DISDAIN 

Take  heed  that  ye  despise  not  one  of  these  littJe  ones. — 
Matt,  xviii.  lo. 

It  has  often  been  noticed  that  the  spirit  of 
contempt  is  very  strongly  developed  among 
savage  races.  A  savage  is  nurtured  to  hate  or 
to  despise.  Between  his  own  tribe  and  every 
other  tribe  there  is  a  deep  and  quite  impassable 
gulf,  and  it  has  never  entered  into  the  savage 
heart  that  love  or  kindness  should  seek  to  bridge 
that  chasm.  If  other  tribes  are  powerful  they 
must  be  hated.  If  they  are  weak  they  must  be 
treated  with  contempt.  It  is  one  article,  then, 
in  the  sad  creed  of  every  savage,  that  there  is 
virtue  in  despising  others. 

And  when  we  pass  from  the  wild  life  of 
savagery  to  the  civilisations  of  the  ancient 
world,  the  remarkable  thing  is  that  we  are  im- 
mediately confronted  with  the  same  spirit  of 
contemptuous    disdain.     We   might   have    hoped 

63 


54     THE  PAGAN  DUTY  OF  DISDAIN 

that  the  culture  of  the  Greek,  and  his  swift 
appreciation  of  all  things  of  beauty,  would  have 
given  him  a  large  sympathy  with  mankind.  We 
might  have  expected  that  the  world-conquering 
Roman,  strong  in  his  masculine  sense  of  law  and 
order,  would  have  been  too  large-hearted  to  be- 
little. And  above  all,  we  might  have  trusted 
that  the  Jew,  to  whom  had  been  granted  the 
vision  of  the  eternal,  would  have  learned  in  the 
great  glory  of  that  vision  to  call  nothing  common 
or  unclean.  But  history  tells  us  a  very  different 
story.  The  old  world  is  flooded  with  the  spirit 
of  contempt.  And  we  do  not  need  to  go  beyond 
the  Bible  story  to  learn  how  the  Greek  looked 
down  on  the  barbarian,  or  how  the  Jew  disdained 
the  Gentile  world.  Everywhere,  then,  where  the 
spirit  of  Christ  is  not,  we  are  confronted  with 
the  spirit  that  contemns.  A  Christless  world,  if 
it  believes  in  anything,  believes  in  the  holy  duty 
of  disdaining.  And  it  is  like  the  courage  of  the 
Lord  Jesus  Christ  that  He  dared  to  Hft  up  His 
voice  against  the  past,  to  charge  it  with  error  in 
its  cherished  virtues,  to  tell  it  it  had  gone  utterly 
astray.  For  all  this  our  blessed  Lord  was  doing, 
when  He  taught  the  lesson  of  not  despising  others. 


THE  PAGAN  DUTY  OF  DISDAIN     55 

Of  course  we  must  distinguish  this  despising 
from  what  I  might  call  the  passion  of  noble  scorn. 
A  man  is  a  poor  creature  and  a  poorer  Christian, 
if  he  has  lost  his  capacity  for  scorn.  There  are 
deeds  that  a  right-thinking  man  will  scorn  to  do. 
There  are  books  that  an  earnest  heart  will  scorn 
to  read.  And  there  are  men  and  women  whom 
a  heaven-touched  soul  would  scorn  to  number  in 
its  list  of  friends.  A  man  is  out  of  line  with 
Jesus  Christ  who  cannot  kindle  into  scorn  of 
anything.  For  if  ever  in  the  world  there  was 
the  passion  of  scorn,  it  was  in  the  heart  of  Jesus 
in  the  Temple,  when  He  raised  His  whip  and 
drove  the  traders  out.  Such  scorn  as  that  is  a 
very  holy  thing.  It  is  the  kindling  of  a  man's 
best  into  a  flame.  It  is  all  that  is  purest  and 
most  divine  within  us  raised  to  white-heat  by 
intolerable  evil.  And  a  man  must  be  very  luke- 
warm for  the  right,  and  have  sadly  confused 
weakness  with  charity,  who  is  never  stirred  so 
in  a  world  like  this.  But  to  despise  is  something 
very  different.  There  is  nothing  of  moral  passion 
in  despising.  It  does  not  spring  from  any  love 
of  goodness.  It  is  not  rooted  in  any  hate  of 
wrong.     True   scorn   is   an   utterly   self-forgetful 


S6     THE  PAGAN  DUTY  OF  DISDAIN 

thing.  But  the  man  who  despises  is  always  full  of 
self 

And  I  think  it  is  not  difficult  to  see  the  evil 
that  is  wrought  by  the  spirit  of  contempt.  It  was 
as  the  champion  of  the  weak  and  the  oppressed, 
and  that  they  might  have  an  atmosphere  to  grow 
in,  that  our  Lord  spoke  so  sternly  of  despising. 
It  is  easy  to  be  good  when  we  are  loved.  It  is 
not  very  hard  to  play  the  man  when  we  are  hated. 
But  to  be  courteous,  charitable,  gentle,  loving, 
kind,  when  all  the  time  we  know  we  are  despised, 
is  a  task  that  would  try  the  powers  of  an  angel. 
There  is  nothing  so  likely  to  make  a  brother 
despicable,  as  just  to  let  him  see  that  you  despise 
him.  There  is  nothing  so  certain  to  touch  the 
flowers  with  frost-bite,  and  chill  the  air,  and  make 
the  spirit  bitter.  And  I  think  that  Jesus  Christ 
hated  contempt,  and  banished  it  imperiously  from 
the  kingdom,  that  chilled  and  suppressed  hearts 
might  have  a  chance.  There  is  only  one  thing 
worse  than  being  despised  by  others.  And  that 
is  to  be  despised  by  one's  own  self. 

And  let  me  say  in  passing  that  we  must  bear 
that  in  mind  if  we  would  really  know  the  beauty 
of    Christ*s    character.     The    wonder    of    it    is 


THE  PAGAN  DUTY  OF  DlplMlN     57 

deepened  a  thousandfold  for  me,  when  I  re- 
member that  He  was  despised.  If  it  is  hard  for 
you  to  hold  fast  to  lovely  and  lowly  things,  if 
it  is  difficult  to  be  good  and  to  be  tender,  when 
in  the  eyes  that  look  on  you  you  see  contempt, 
you  may  be  sure  it  was  not  less  hard  for  Jesus. 
Nay,  on  the  contrary,  it  was  far  harder ;  for 
Jesus  was  far  more  sensitive  than  you.  We 
have  all  been  dulled  and  coarsened  by  our  sin  ; 
Jesus  alone  knew  nothing  of  that  coarsening. 
In  looks  that  we  could  never  have  interpreted, 
in  words  whose  sting  we  never  should  have  felt, 
Christ  felt  in  its  bitterness  that  He  was  despised  : 
yet  what  can  match  the  beauty  of  His  character  ? 
Had  it  been  only  antagonism  that  confronted 
Him,  I  think  I  could  understand  Christ  Jesus 
better.  For  a  man  is  often  roused  by  fierce 
antagonism  till  all  his  slumbering  powers  take  the 
field.  But  that  Jesus  of  Nazareth  should  have 
wakened  every  morning  and  said  to  His  heart, 
I  shall  be  despised  to-day ;  that  He  should 
have  gone  every  evening  to  His  rest  saying 
to  His  heart.  To-day  I  was  despised  ;  and  that 
in  spite  of  that  He  should  have  moved  on  to 
the  cross,  brave,  tender,  loving — that  is  the  great 


58     THE  PAGAN  DUTY  OF  DISDAIN 

mystery  for  me.  May  it  not  have  been  because 
our  Lord  knew  to  its  uttermost  the  temptations 
of  the  soul  that  is  despised,  that  He  spoke  so 
strongly  on  not  despising  others  ? 

Now  what  are  the  sources  of  this  contemptuous 
spirit?  Why  is  it  we  are  so  ready  to  despise? 
Well,  I  take  it  that  contempt  has  two  main  roots, 
and  the  first  of  them  is  want  of  understanding. 
There  is  a  great  text  in  Job  of  which  I  often  think ; 
it  occurs  where  Elihu  is  justifying  God  to  men. 
And  he  says,  *  God  is  mighty  and  despiseth  not 
any;  He  is  great  in  strength  of  understanding.' 
Now  Elihu  was  not  a  very  brilliant  person  ;  one 
can  hardly  imagine  even  patient  Job  listening 
patiently  to  Elihu's  preaching.  But  I  could 
forgive  Elihu  a  whole  volume  of  commonplace 
for  this  one  thought  that  flashed  on  his  poor 
brain.  For  Elihu  means  that  just  because  God 
is  great,  and  knows  each  separate  heart  with 
perfect  knowledge,  and  reads,  without  an  error 
in  one  syllable,  the  intricate  story  of  the  worst 
and  weakest,  because  of  that^  God  is  a  God  of 
pity  :  '  He  is  mighty  and  despiseth  not  any.' 
That  means  that  if  we  knew  our  brother  as  God 
knows  him,  we  should  never  dare  to  despise  him 


THE  PAGAN  DUTY  OF  DISDAIN     59 

any  more.  In  the  last  analysis  man  may  be  a 
sinner,  but  in  the  last  analysis — thank  God — 
man  is  not  despicable.  If  only  we  knew  what 
the  weakest  and  worst  had  borne,  if  only  we 
understood  how  they  were  tempted,  if  we  could 
read  the  story  of  their  secret  battle,  could  fathom 
their  wretchedness,  could  hear  their  cry ;  if 
only  we  realised  that  under  that  dull  exterior 
there  are  heaven,  hell,  loneliness,  cravings,  love, 
I  think  we  should  cease  despising  in  that 
hour.  God  understands  all  that,  and  therefore 
despises  no  one.  We  despise  because  we  do  not 
know. 

And  then  the  other  root  is  want  of  love. 
Where  love  is,  there  can  be  no  contempt. 
A  man  may  have  twenty  despicable  traits,  but 
to  the  one  who  loves  him  he  is  still  a  hero. 
And  that  is  why,  in  the  love  of  Christian  homes, 
men  who  are  not  thought  much  of  in  the  city 
are  sometimes  wonderfully  good  and  gentle. 
They  are  not  hypocrites.  It  is  the  absence  of 
even  the  suspicion  of  contempt  at  home  that 
brings  out  all  that  is  best  and  brightest  in  them. 
I  have  se«n  a  deformed  or  crippled  little  boy  or 
girl   sadly   despised    in   the   playground   and   the 


So     THE  PAGAN  DUTY  OF  DISDAIN 

street.  They  have  had  to  stand  many  a  bitter 
jest — for  children  can  be  terribly  cruel.  But 
though  all  the  playground  despise  the  shrunken 
limbs,  and  make  very  merry  at  the  arrested  brain, 
there  is  one  at  home  who  would  sooner  lie  down 
in  her  grave,  than  think  of  despising  that  little 
shattered  frame.  Where  a  mother's  love  is,  there 
is  no  contempt.  It  is  want  of  love,  then,  and 
want  of  understanding,  that  lie  at  the  roots  of 
most  of  our  despising.  And  the  question  I  wish 
to  ask  in  closing  is  this  :  How  does  the  gospel  of 
Jesus  combat  that  ?  Christ  never  says  do  this,  and 
leaves  us  there.  When  He  commands,  He  gives 
the  power  to  fulfil.  And  I  wish  to  ask  what  are 
these  powers,  that  have  been  called  into  action  by 
the  Christian  gospel,  to  banish  the  contemptuous 
spirit  from  the  kingdom  '^ 

First,  then,  there  is  the  height  of  the  ideal  that 
dawns  on  a  man  when  he  becomes  a  Christian. 
In  his  new  standards  of  the  measurements  of 
things,  there  is  less  difference  between  him  and 
others  than  he  thought.  A  little  green  hillock 
of  some  thirty  feet  high  might  well  despise  the 
molehill  in  the  field.  But  place  them  both  under 
the  shadow  of  Ben  Nevis,  and  there  is  little  room 


THE  PAGAN  DUTY  OF  DISDAIN     6i 

for  boasting  or  contempt.  The  schoolboy  who 
has  mastered  Cassar  despises  his  junior  still  strug- 
gling with  the  rudiments.  But  in  the  presence 
of  a  ripe  Latin  scholar  there  is  not  so  much 
difference  between  the  brothers  after  all.  Just 
so  when  a  man  sees  little  higher  than  himself,  it 
is  tolerably  easy  to  despise.  But  when  the  ideal 
is  lifted  into  the  glory  of  Christ  our  superiority 
has  a  strange  trick  of  vanishing.  It  was  the 
Pharisee,  whose  standard  of  all  things  was  the 
Pharisee,  who  thanked  God  that  he  was  not  as 
other  men.  But  the  poor  publican,  with  his 
God-touched  conscience,  and  his  vision  of  the 
splendour  and  purity  of  heaven,  could  only  cry^ 
'  God  be  merciful  to  me  the  sinner.'  With 
such  heights  to  scale,  and  with  such  depths  to 
loathe,  it  was  impossible  to  despise  the  sorriest 
brother.  And  every  man  who  has  been  wakened 
to  the  eternal  has  been  wakened  to  the  sight  of 
heights  and  depths  like  that.  It  is  that  heighten- 
ing and  deepening  that  comes  through  Christ 
that  robs  a  man  of  shallow  self-content.  And 
to  -rob  a  man  of  shallow  self-content  is  a  sure 
way  to  guard  him  from  despising. 

And  then  the  gospel  insists  on  human  brother- 


62     THE  PAGAN  DUTY  OF  DISDAIN 

hood.  *  Our  Father  which  art  in  heaven '  is  its 
prayer.  Did  the  cultured  Greek  look  down  on 
the  barbarian  ?  Did  the  elect  and  covenanted 
Jew  despise  the  Gentile  ?  Did  the  free  man 
look  with  an  infinite  disdain  upon  the  slave  ? 
Clear  as  a  trumpet,  strong  as  the  voice  of  God, 
there  rang  this  message  on  a  dying  world  :  There 
is  neither  Jew  nor  Greek,  barbarian,  Scythian, 
bond  nor  free,  but  all  are  one  in  Christ.  Yes, 
and  when  that  word  of  command  was  obeyed, 
and  the  gospel  of  Jesus  was  carried  to  the  heathen, 
and  when  the  peace  and  hope  and  joy  and  com- 
fort of  it  was  offered  in  all  its  fulness  to  the 
slave,  slowly,  like  a  dark  cloud,  the  contemptuous 
spirit  of  paganism  scattered,  and  the  star  of 
brotherhood  rose  in  the  sky.  It  is  our  kinship 
in  Christ,  then,  that  is  blotting  out  contempt. 
It  is  our  brotherhood  that  has  lightened  that 
burden  of  despising.  God  meant  us  to  be 
like  that  tiny  lass  in  Edinburgh  who  was  carry- 
ing a  strapping  infant  in  her  arms,  and  when  a 
stranger  said,  '  Why,  what  a  burden  for  you,* 
Rhc  answered,  '  Please,  sir,  he  's  no  a  burden,  he  *s 
my  brother.' 

But  the  greatest  power  ®f  all  has  still  to  be 


THE  PAGAN  DUTY  OF  DISDAIN     63 

named.  It  is  the  life  and  death  of  our  Saviour 
Jesus  Christ.  No  man  can  struggle  to  be  true 
to  that  ideal,  nor  feel  the  love  that  brought  Him 
to  the  cross,  but  the  contemptuous  spirit  we  are 
all  so  prone  to  will  take  to  itself  wings  and  fly- 
away. I  ask  you  to  trace  the  story  of  that  life, 
and  tell  me  if  you  find  a  trace  of  despising  there. 
The  fact  is,  Christ  was  despised  for  not  despising  : 
the  Jew  could  never  understand  His  charity. 
Did  He  despise  the  woman  of  Samaria  though 
all  her  village  held  her  in  contempt  ?  Did  He 
despise  the  publican,  the  harlot  ?  Did  He  ever 
look  with  disdain  on  little  children  ^  Christ  saw 
the  worst  as  you  have  never  seen  it — felt  all  the 
loathsomeness  and  guilt  of  sin — yet  for  the  worst 
aU  things  were  possible  yet ;  there  was  some  chord 
still  capable  of  music.  The  sorriest  sinner  was 
good  enough  to  live  for.  The  sorriest  sinner 
was  good  enough  to  die  for.  A  man  may  be 
poor,  unsuccessful,  vulgar,  very  dull ;  but  if  he 
can  say  '  Christ  Jesus  died  for  me,*  I  do  not  think 
I  shall  despise  that  man  again. 


NEAR-CUTS   NOT   GOD'S 

God  led  them  not  through  the  way  of  the  land  of  the  Philistines, 
although  that  was  near. — Ex.  xiii.  17. 

It  is  strange  to  think  that  by  the  straight  road  it 
was  a  tolerably  brief  journey  from  Egypt  to 
Palestine.  Four  or  five  days'  hard  marching,  by 
the  route  that  is  now  common  with  the  traders, 
would  have  brought  the  children  of  Israel  to  the 
promised  land.  Four  or  five  days  would  have 
done  it  comfortably ;  yet  Israel  took  forty  years 
to  do  it.  And  we  know  the  hardships,  and  the 
sorrows,  and  the  battlings,  that  filled  with  bitter- 
ness these  forty  years.  Yet  for  all  that,  the 
leadership  was  God's.  The  pillar  of  cloud  and 
fire  led  the  advance.  The  longest  way  round  was 
the  shortest  way  home.  There  was  a  near-cut, 
certainly  ;  but  here,  at  any  rate,  the  near-cut  was 
not  God's. 

And  it  is  not  difficult  to  see  with  sufficient  clear- 
ness some  of  God's  reasons  for  this  roundabout. 

64 


NEAR-CUTS  NOT  GOD'S,  65 

The  Bible  uplifts  the  veil  a  little,  and  we  find  first 
that  there  was  compassion  in  it.  That  near  way 
was  through  the  land  of  the  Philistines,  and  the 
Philistines  were  skilled  and  subtle  in  the  arts  of 
war.  To  have  brought  Israel  face  to  face  with 
them — Israel,  fresh  from  the  stubble-field,  and 
with  the  broken  spirit  of  the  slave  still  in  them — 
to  have  done  that  might  have  been  to  have  spoiled 
everything,  and  to  have  sent  them  scattering  and 
headlong  back  to  Egypt.  The  time  was  coming 
when  the  armies  of  Israel  would  be  more  than  a 
match  for  any  ranks  of  Philistines.  The  time  was 
coming — the  Almighty  was  hastening  it  ;  only  the 
time  for  that  had  not  come  yet.  So  by  a  thousand 
lesser  trials  and  combats,  sharp  brushes,  unex- 
pected difficulties,  an  all-compassionate  God  pre- 
pared the  rabble  to  be  a  disciplined  army  of  the 
Lord.  And  it  took  forty  years  to  do  that 
thoroughly.  It  was  a  very  compassionate  pro- 
traction. The  road  was  very  roundabout,  granted. 
But  it  was  the  right  road  for  all  that. 

But  there  was  more  than  compassion  in  it ;  there 
was  education,  and  true  compassion  is  generally 
educative.  We  hardly  realise  what  we  should 
have  lost,  nor  how  incalculably  poorer  the  human 

'  E 


66  ^EAR-CUTS  NOT  GOD'S 

race  would  have  been,  if  Israel  had  been  permitted 
the  near-cut.  Five  days  by  the  power  of  God 
might  have  brought  them  to  Canaan,  but  still 
with  Egypt  and  its  bondage  in  their  blood.  It 
took  one  night  to  take  Israel  out  of  Egypt,  but 
forty  years  to  take  Egypt  out  of  Israel.  And 
when  I  think  of  all  that  Israel  learned,  in  the 
storm  and  the  shadow  of  that  devious  journey ; 
when  I  remember  how  it  enriched  and  deepened 
their  knowledge  of  themselves,  and  of  their  God, 
I  feel  that  the  purpose  of  the  Divine  was  in  it  : 
they  were  being  educated  for  your  sake  and  mine. 
God  led  them  not  through  the  way  of  the 
Philistines,  though  that  was  near.  And  we  are 
all  debtors  to  that  leadership. 

That,  then,  was  one  feature  of  God's  guidance. 
It  shunned  the  near  road,  and  it  took  the  round- 
about ;  and  if  you  have  been  living  with  the 
open  eye,  and  watching  the  method  of  the  Divine 
in  things,  you  have  seen  much  that  is  analogous 
to  this.  But  we  forget  so  readily,  that  it  is  part 
of  a  preacher's  office  just  to  recall  parallels  at 
times.  Let  us  name,  then,  some  of  the  larger 
spheres,  where  again  the  near-cut  was  not 
God's. 


NEAR-CUTS  NOT  GOD'S  67 

Think  of  the  discovery  of  nature's  secrets  :  of 
coal,  of  iron,  of  steam,  of  electricity.  God  formed 
this  world  to  be  inhabited,  said  the  prophet  ;  and 
these  great  powers,  or  instruments  of  power,  have 
slumbered  or  flashed  since  the  world  was.  And 
a  single  whisper  from  God  would  have  communi- 
cated everything,  and  put  mankind  in  possession 
of  the  secrets.  Five  days  ? — five  moments  might 
have  done  it ;  the  world  would  have  been  at  its 
Canaan,  so  to  speak.  But  God  never  led  us  that 
way,  though  that  way  was  near.  There  have  been 
centuries  of  patient  toil  and  striving ;  endless 
mistake,  long  gropings  in  the  dark ;  there  have 
been  sufferings  and  sacrifices  in  the  cause  of  science, 
as  great  as  any  of  Israel  in  the  desert ;  and  then, 
and  not  till  then,  at  that  long  last,  did  the  secrets 
of  the  world  begin  to  dawn.  It  has  been  very 
roundabout,  that  road  to  power ;  but  it  has  been 
the  right  road,  spite  of  its  devious  windings. 
For  the  powers  of  nature  would  have  mastered 
us ;  we  should  have  been  their  slaves  and  not 
their  lords  had  we  been  faced  by  them,  just  after 
Egypt.  And  in  the  efforts  to  know,  to  under- 
stand, and  to  see,  we  have  learned  so  much,  and 
have  been  so  ennobled,  that  the  roundabout  has 


68  NEAR-CUTS  NOT  GOD'S 

been  a  priceless  blessing,  and  we  are  all  debtors 
to  that  leadership. 

Or  rising  upward,  think  of  the  coming  of 
Jesus.  I  detect  the  same  leadership  of  God  in 
that.  I  see  in  it  the  action  of  that  Hand  that 
took  Israel  to  Canaan  by  a  circuit.  What  is  the 
meaning  of  all  the  old  religions  ?  of  the  primitive 
faiths  that  were  old  when  Christ  was  born  ?  And 
what  is  the  meaning  of  these  thousand  sacrifices 
that  smoked  on  the  altar  of  Gentile  and  of  Jew .? 
They  mean  that  from  the  first  dawn  of  history 
man  has  been  crying  for  a  Saviour-God.  Yet  the 
ages  passed,  and  the  Saviour  never  came.  And 
empires  arose,  and  kingdoms  passed  away,  and 
philosophies  were  born  and  flowered  and  perished, 
and  the  prophets  prophesied  and  the  psalmists 
sung  :  and  the  world  was  dying,  and  all  for  want 
of  God.  Surely,  in  response  to  the  world's 
need.  He  might  have  come  a  thousand  years 
before  !  But  God  had  no  near  way  to  Beth- 
lehem. He  led  the  world  about ;  and  through 
the  desert,  before  He  brought  it  to  the  king 
at  Nazareth.  We  see  now  that  there  was  a 
fulness  of  the  time.  There  was  kindness  and 
education  on   the  road.      The  world  had  to  be 


NEAR-CUTS  NOT  GOD'S  69 

led  so  to  be  ready,  and  we  are  all  debtors  to  that 
leadership. 

There  is  one  other  region  where  a  similar 
guidance  of  God  is  very  evident.  I  refer  to  the 
evangelising  of  the  world.  We  talk  of  the 
difficulties  men  feel  about  foreign  missions.  I 
believe  that  one  of  the  greatest  of  them  all,  when 
one  seriously  thinks  about  the  matter,  is  the 
slow  progress  that  missions  seem  to  make.  After 
the  resurrection,  on  that  glad  summer  morning, 
men  bowed  to  the  gospel  Hke  a  field  of  corn.  And 
Jesus  Christ  is  still  the  power  of  God  :  why,  then, 
are  the  nations  not  yielding  to  His  love  ?  Is  there 
no  near  road  to  the  heathen  ?  No  thrill  from  the 
Infinite  that  might  tingle  through  Africa  till  twice 
ten  thousand  cried  aloud  for  Jesus  ?  Ah,  it  would 
be  exquisitely  pleasing ;  but  you  must  remember 
near-cuts  are  not  God's.  Slowly,  along  the  roads 
that  commerce  has  opened,  and  by  the  highways 
along  which  battle  marched,  leaving  them  blood- 
red  in  her  own  grim  way  ;  slowly,  by  a  man  here, 
and  by  a  woman  there,  and  the  men  not  saints, 
but  of  like  passions  with  ourselves — and  by 
unceasing  labour,  and  by  unrecorded  sacrifice,  the 
world  is  being  led  to  know  of  Jesus.     And  we 


70  NEAR-CUTS  NOT  GOD'S 

have  learned  so  much  in  that  hard  struggle,  so 
much  of  the  world,  so  much  of  human  nature ; 
we  have  seen  such  love  evolved,  such  courage  and 
such  heroism,  that  we  are  all  debtors  to  that 
leadership. 

Now  so  far  I  have  been  dwelling  on  larger 
spheres  ;  but  I  should  be  sorry  ever  to  close  a 
sermon  without  having  a  cast  for  individual  souls. 
I  wish  to  tell  you,  then,  of  one  thing  I  have 
noticed  in  the  Bible  (and  when  a  matter  occurs 
often  there,  you  may  be  sure  there  is  need  for  such 
iteration),  I  have  noticed  that  most  of  the  high 
and  generous  souls — the  gallant  spirits  of  the  two 
covenants,  let  me  say — have  been  tempted  with 
the  temptation  to  take  the  near-cut,  and  in  the 
power  of  God  have  conquered  it. 

Take  Abraham,  for  instance.  God  had  made 
a  promise  to  Abraham  that  all  the  land  of  Canaan 
should  be  his.  And  Abraham  dwelt  in  Canaan, 
and  he  grew  rich  in  it,  and  he  owned  not  a  foot  of 
it  save  his  wife's  grave.  Do  not  you  think  he 
had  counsellors  in  his  tent,  and  in  his  bosom,  to 
whisper  to  him,  '  Abraham,  arise  !  thou  hast  a 
host  of  followers ;  go  out  and  win  the  land '  ? 
And  Abraham  could  fight  and  conquer  when  he 


NEAR-CUTS  NOT  GOD'S  71 

liked — witness  his  battle  with  the  five  kings  for 
Lot's  sake.  But  he  refused  that  near-cut  to  the 
promise;  scorned  it:  said  God  must  fulfil,  not  I  ; 
and  died  in  a  strange  country,  dwelling  in  tents, 
though  God  had  pledged  him  Canaan  for  his  own. 
Tempted  by  the  near  road,  he  refused  it.  He  felt 
by  faith  that  God's  ways  were  roundabout.  And 
when  he  opened  his  eyes  on  the  other  side  of  Jordan, 
and  in  the  true  Canaan  saw  the  King  in  his  beauty, 
I  warrant  you  he  knew  that  God's  road  was  best. 

Or  think  of  David.  God  had  made  a  promise 
to  David,  that  the  Kingdom  of  Israel  would  be 
his.  And  David  was  persecuted  and  hunted  in 
the  hills,  till  there  came  that  never-to-be-forgotten 
morning  by  the  sheep-cotes,  when  Saul  went  into 
the  cave  to  cover  his  feet.  And  the  men  of  David 
said  unto  him,  '  Behold  the  day  of  which  the  Lord 
said  unto  thee  :  I  will  deliver  thine  enemy  into 
thine  hand.'  One  stab,  and  his  great  enemy  was 
dead.  The  times  were  rough,  and  no  one  would 
have  blamed  him.  One  cut — yes,  a  near-cut  to 
the  throne.  But  *  the  Lord  forbid  that  I  should 
do  this  thing  ! '  David  refused  it  ;  put  the  thought 
from  him  like  poison.  And  when  at  last,  after 
Mount  Gilboa,  he  came  to  his  throne  by  the  way 


72  NEAR-CUTS  NOT  GOD'S 

that  God  appointed,  I  warrant  you  he  felt  God's 
ways  were  best. 

Or  think  with  all  reverence  of  Jesus  Christ, 
tempted  in  all  points  like  as  we  are,  yet  without 
sin.  Why  did  He  come  to  earth  to  live  and  die 
for  us,  but  that  the  kingdoms  of  this  world 
might  become  His  ?  And  the  devil  taketh  Him 
up  into  an  exceeding  high  mountain,  and  showeth 
Him  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world,  and  saith  to 
Him  :  *  All  these  things  will  I  give  Thee,  if  Thou 
wilt  fall  down  and  worship  me/  It  was  the  old 
temptation.  I  speak  with  utmost  reverence — it 
was  Jesus  being  tempted  by  near  ways.  There 
was  a  quicker  and  an  easier  road  than  Calvary. 
*  Ally  Thyself,  Jesus,  in  Thy  magnificent  powers 
— ally  Thyself  with  the  spirit  of  the  world,  and 
triumph  is  certain  ;  there  need  be  no  Gethsemane  ; 
men  will  be  quick  to  feel  the  King  in  Thee,  and 
crown  Thee.'  Then  saith  Jesus  unto  him  :  '  Get 
thee  hence,  Satan,  for  it  is  written  thou  shalt 
worship  the  Lord  thy  God.'  And  when  I  think 
of  the  long  road  of  Jesus,  round  by  the  villages, 
and  through  the  Garden,  and  on  to  the  cross,  and 
into  the  grave,  I  feel,  if  I  never  felt  it  in  my  life 
before,  that  near-cuts  are  not  God's. 


NEAR-CUTS  NOT  GOD'S  73 

Now  I  want  you  to  carry  out  that  doctrine. 
You  want  to  be  prosperous  ?  There  is  no  near 
road  to  that,  consistent  with  Christian  principle 
and  God.  I  often  think  of  the  gentleman  who 
said  that  the  strongest  temptation  in  his  earlier 
years  was  when  the  devil  took  him  up  into  an 
exceeding  high  mountain  and  showed  him  ten  per 
cent.  And  there  is  no  near  road  to  joy,  nor  to 
Christian  character  ;  you  must  go  round  by  the 
desert  to  that  Canaan.  Be  patient.  Do  not  be 
showy,  flashy.  Hold  to  it,  dourly,  in  the  dark, 
and  go  ahead.  And  though  the  way  is  strangely 
roundabout,  full  of  mistake  and  struggle  and 
secret  cry,  it  will  emerge,  in  the  good  time  of  God, 
into  the  land  that  flows  with  milk  and  honey. 


THE  DEPARTING  OF  THE  ANGEL 

And  they  went  out,  and  passed  on  through  one  street,  and  forth- 
with the  angel  departed  from  him. — Acts  xli.  lo. 

In  the  verses  that  precede  our  text  we  have  the 
familiar  story  of  Peter's  release  from  prison. 
Perhaps  the  story  would  have  been  still  more 
familiar,  and  would  have  impressed  itself  still 
more  vividly  on  Christendom,  had  it  not  been 
overshadowed  by  that  other  scene,  when  Paul 
and  Silas  sang  in  the  gaol  at  Philippi.  The  world 
would  have  been  a  great  deal  poorer  but  for  its 
prisons.  We  owe  more  to  our  prisons  than  we 
think.  Shining  virtues  have  been  developed  in 
them ;  miracles  of  heaven  have  been  wrought  in 
them;  immortal  literature  has  been  written 
in  them,  and  these  are  things  we  could  ill  do 
without.  And  we  could  not  do  without  that 
word  of  Jesus  either — -Sick  and  in  prison,  and  ye 
visited  Me. 

Peter,  then,  had   been   imprisoned  by  Herod. 

74 


THE  DEPARTING  OF  THE  ANGEL    75 

He  had  been  cast  into  the  inmost  ward.  You 
can  hear  door  after  door  shut-to  behind  him, 
with  a  re-echoing  clang.  And  then,  to  make 
assurance  doubly  sure,  he  is  chained  to  two 
soldiers  as  Paul  was,  afterwards,  in  Rome.  Per- 
haps Herod  thought  that  if  Peter *s  Master,  when 
He  was  left  for  dead,  had  burst  from  the  sealed 
grave,  it  were  well  to  make  assurance  doubly- 
sure,  when  the  prisoner  was  one  of  Jesus'  hench- 
men. But  there  were  some  truths  that  Herod 
had  yet  to  learn.  And  one  of  them  was  that 
when  God  Almighty  works,  '  stone  walls  do  not 
a  prison  make,  nor  iron  bars  a  cage.'  Behold  the 
angel  of  the  Lord  came  upon  Peter,  and  a  light 
shined  in  the  prison.  You  can  shut  out  a  man's 
nearest  and  dearest  from  him,  but  no  authority 
can  shut  the  angels  out.  And  the  angel  touched 
Peter,  and  the  chains  fell  off  him.  And  the  angel 
led  him  out  from  ward  to  ward.  And  the  iron 
gate  swung  back  upon  its  hinges,  and  Peter  was 
out  under  the  stars  again.  And  the  angel  and 
Peter  passed  on  through  one  street,  we  read,  and 
forthwith  the  angel  departed  from  him. 

Now,  do  you  see  why  the  angel  left  the  disciple 
then  ?     There  is  strong  doctrine  in  the  departing 


76   THE  DEPARTING  OF  THE  ANGEL 

of  the  angel.  Sometimes  the  angels  leave  us  for 
our  sin.  We  are  so  coarse,  and  evil-inclined  and 
worldly,  it  would  stain  and  sully  their  white  robes 
to  walk  with  us.  They  try  it  for  one  street — for 
we  have  all  our  chance  ;  but  it  does  not  prove  '  the 
street  which  is  called  Straight.'  There  is  always  a 
dying  out  of  vision  when  a  man  or  woman  loses 
the  childlike  heart,  and  the  dying  of  vision  is  the 
departing  angel.  Sometimes,  then,  the  angel  leaves 
the  soul — the  brightness  fades,  the  heavenlies 
disappear,  the  presence  of  white-robed  purity  is 
lost — and  all  because  a  man  is  growing  worldly. 

But  that  was  clearly  not  the  case  with  Peter. 
Right  to  the  end,  through  all  the  struggle  and 
the  storm  of  life,  Peter  preserved,  as  only  the 
greatest  do,  the  great  heart  of  a  little  child.  If 
every  child  has  got  its  guardian  angel,  I  do  not 
think  that  Simon's  would  be  lacking.  Yet  for  all 
that,  when  they  had  passed  through  one  street, 
forthwith  the  angel  departed  from  Simon  Peter. 
And  I  think  it  is  not  difficult  to  see  why.  The 
angel's  work  was  done  ;  that  is  the  point.  There 
was  no  more  need  for  the  ministry  of  miracle. 
Peter  was  a  man  among  men  now  ;  in  the  familiar 
streets,  freed  from  his  shackles,  and  with  friends 


THE  DEPARTING  OF  THE  ANGEL    77 

to  go  to — it  was  at  that  point  the  angel  went 
away.  There  was  the  presence  of  Christ  for 
Simon  Peter  now  ;  there  was  God  in  His  eternal 
law  and  love  ;  but  there  was  no  need  for  the 
angel  any  more.  His  task  was  over  when  the 
chains  were  snapt,  and  the  last  gate  between  Peter 
and  liberty  swung  wide. 

I  wonder  if  you  grasp,  then,  what  I  should 
venture  to  call  the  helpful  doctrine  of  the  depart- 
ing angel  ?  I  think  it  is  a  feature  of  God*s 
dealing  that  has  been  somewhat  neglected  in 
our  thought.  It  means  that  in  extraordinary 
difficulties  we  may  reasonably  look  for  extra- 
ordinary help.  It  means  that  when  we  are  shut 
in  prison  walls,  and  utterly  helpless  to  extricate 
ourselves,  God  has  unusual  powers  in  reserve, 
that  He  is  willing  to  dispatch  to  aid  His  own.  But 
when  the  clamant  need  goes,  so  does  the  angel. 
In  the  open  street,  under  the  common  sky,  do 
not  expect  miraculous  intervention.  It  was  better 
for  Peter's  manhood,  and  it  is  better  for  yours,  that 
only  the  hour  of  the  dungeon  should  bring  that. 
The  angel  departs,  but  the  law  of  God  abides. 
The  angel  departs^  but  the  love  of  Christ  remains. 
And  I  think  that  all  God's  leading  of  His  people, 


78    THE  DEPARTING  OF  THE  ANGEL 

and  all  the  experience  of  the  Christian  heart,  might 
be  summed  up,  with  not  a  little  gain,  in  the 
departing  angel  and  the  remaining  Lord. 

I  want  then  to  take  that  suggestion  to-night 
and  bring  it  to  bear  on  various  spheres  of  life. 
And  first  we  shall  think  of  Israel  in  the  wilder- 
ness. There  was  a  helplessness  about  Israel  in 
the  wilderness,  like  the  helplessness  of  Peter  in 
the  prison.  It  was  a  terrible  journey  through 
that  gloomy  desert,  twice  terrible  for  these  newly 
emancipated  slaves.  There  were  mighty  barriers 
between  them  and  Palestine  quite  as  impassable 
as  any  prison-doors.  They  would  all  have 
perished  but  for  angelic  help.  Hungry,  the 
flight  of  quails  came  from  the  sea,  and  the  ground 
was  covered,  in  the  red  dawn,  with  manna. 
Thirsty,  there  flowed  a  stream  of  water  from  the 
rock,  and  they  drank  of  the  spiritual  rock  which 
followed  them.  The  Red  Sea  became  a  highway 
for  their  feet,  and  they  found  a  road  right  through 
the  swellings  of  Jordan.  It  was  the  angel  of  God 
smiting  their  fetters  off.  It  was  the  angel  of 
God  bursting  the  gates  before  them.  Out  of  the 
dungeon  and  prison-house  of  Egypt  they  were 
carried    by  the   constraint  of  irresistible   power. 


THE  DEPARTING  OF  THE  ANGEL    79 

But  then,  when  they  reached  Canaan  and  had,  as 
it  were,  passed  through  one  street  of  it,  forthwith 
the  angel  departed  from  them.  The  manna 
ceased  to  fall  after  one  harvest.  They  drank  no 
more  of  the  water  from  the  rock.  There  came 
days  when  they  were  hunted  down  by  enemies, 
yet  the  Jordan  never  stayed  its  flood  again. 
Jehovah  was  with  them  still  in  love  and  law  ;  the 
mystical  presence  of  Jesus  was  their  shield.  But 
the  need  was  past,  the  prison  gates  were  broken, 
and  they  learned  the  doctrine  of  the  departing 
angel. 

Or  we  might  think  of  the  history  of  the 
Christian  church  in  this  light.  We  might  com- 
pare Pentecost  with  after  centuries.  There  was 
a  radiance  and  a  spiritual  glory  about  Pentecost, 
that  remind  us  at  once  of  Peter  and  the  angel. 
There  were  tongues,  as  it  were  of  fire,  on  every 
head  ;  the  doors  of  that  upper  room  were  opened 
wide  :  the  bonds  of  that  little  company  were 
loosed ;  they  were  filled  with  joy,  they  got  new 
gifts  of  speech.  It  was  a  season  of  wonder  and 
of  miracle ;  it  was  the  intervention  of  heaven  for 
an  hour.  And  then  the  church  passed  on  through 
one    street    mystical,    and    forthwith    the    angel 


8o   THE  DEPARTING  OF  THE  ANGEL 

departed  from  them.  Could  Justin  or  Jerome  or 
Augustine  work  miracles  ?  Does  God  give  any 
missionary  now  the  gift  of  tongues?  Can  we 
heal  the  lame  with  a  word  as  Peter  did  ?  Can  we 
shake  off  the  serpent  as  Paul  did  at  Malta? 
There  are  some  men  who  would  have  us  believe 
we  can  ;  and  there  are  more  who,  knowing  that 
we  cannot,  think  it  impossible  that  it  was  ever 
done.  I  beseech  you  to  avoid  these  two  mistakes. 
Remember  the  doctrine  of  the  departing  angel. 
We  are  out  in  the  streets  now,  under  the  stars  of 
heaven  ;  miraculous  ministries  would  simply  ruin 
our  manhood.  Once,  when  there  were  prison 
gates  to  open,  the  angel  came  and  gave  the  church 
her  liberty.  But  now  the  Lord  is  our  shepherd 
and  our  stay ;  the  grace  of  an  abiding  Christ 
suffices.  The  angel  has  been  summoned  home  to 
God. 

I  think,  too,  that  we  become  conscious  of  this 
truth  in  the  unfolding  of  our  individual  life. 
There  comes  a  time  in  the  life  of  every  one  of  us 
when,  not  for  our  sin  but  for  our  deepest  good, 
the  angel  leaves  us  as  he  left  Simon  Peter.  In 
childhood  we  were  very  near  the  angels ;  we 
heard  the  beating  of  their  wings  sometimes,  when 


THE  DEPARTING  OF  THE  ANGEL    8i 

the  world  was  hushed  and  everything  was  dark. 
We  never  thought  of  law  or  will  or  character  ; 
we  lived  in  a  dreamland,  and  the  great  dream  was 
God.  '  Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy.' 
In  my  church  in  the  far  north — and  a  beautiful 
church  it  was — we  had  curtains  on  each  side  of 
the  pulpit.  The  way  into  the  pulpit  was  through 
the  curtains.  And  I  often  used  to  notice  a  tiny 
girl  gazing  at  these  curtains  with  very  eager  eyes. 
It  was  quite  clear  it  was  not  the  minister  she  was 
looking  at.  It  was  whenever  the  curtains  moved 
that  she  would  start  and  stare.  I  found  out  after- 
wards what  all  the  interest  was.  The  little  child 
thought  that  heaven  was  behind  the  curtains.  It 
was  only  a  wilderness  of  joists  and  planks  ;  but 
she  thought  that  Christ  was  there,  she  thought 
that  God  was  there  ;  she  thought  that  the  minister 
stepped  out  from  God  into  the  pulpit,  and  every 
time  the  curtain  rustled — little  heart,  little  eager, 
beating  hearf.  !  who  could  tell  but  thou  mightst 
catch  the  shimmer  of  an  angel  there  ?  Ah,  well, 
she  has  passed  on  through  one  street  since  then, 
and  forthwith  the  angel  has  departed  from  her. 
She  will  never  mistake  an  organ-loft  for  heaven 
again.      She   never   expects   to   see   the   gleam   of 

F 


82    THE  DEPARTING  OF  THE  ANGEL 

wings  now.  And  it  may  be  that  she  looks  back 
half  wistfully  to  the  day  of  glory  in  the  grass  and 
splendour  in  the  flower.  But  my  point  is  that 
the  angel  must  depart,  if  we  are  to  walk  the  street 
of  life  in  our  true  dignity.  We  are  not  here  to 
dream  that  heaven  is  near  us  ;  we  are  here  so  to 
live  that  heaven  shall  be  within  us.  And  if  at 
every  turn  the  angel  met  us,  and  the  vision  of  a 
dream  enchanted  us,  we  should  lose  heart  and 
nerve  and  power  for  the  struggle,  and  be  like  the 
lotos-eaters  in  ignoble  quietude.  The  angel  may 
go,  but  duty  still  remains.  The  vision  may 
disappear,  but  truth  abides.  We  never  under- 
stand what  will  is,  we  never  realise  what  we  can 
do,  we  never  feel  the  worth  of  personality  moved 
by  the  spirit  of  an  ascended  Lord,  till  the  hour 
when  the  angel  goes  away.  Therefore,  in  the 
interests  of  highest  and  holiest  manhood,  we  shall 
thank  God  for  the  angel-atmosphere  of  childhood, 
and  thank  Him  none  the  less  that  when  we  have 
passed  through  one  street,  forthwith  the  angel  has 
departed  from  us. 

I  think,  too,  and  with  this  I  close,  I  think  we 
may  swing  this  thought  like  a  lamp  over  the  dark 
chamber  of  the  grave.     In  a  great  congregation 


THE  DEPARTING  OF  THE  ANGEL    83 

there  are  always  mourners,  and  I  do  not  like  to 
close  without  a  word  for  them.  It  may  be  there 
is  some  one  here  to-night  who,  looking  backward, 
remembers  an  angel  presence.  Perhaps  it  was 
a  mother,  perhaps  a  sister  ;  but  they  were  so 
gracious,  so  gentle,  and  so  patient,  that  you  see 
now  it  was  of  heaven,  not  of  earth.  And  you 
thought  it  was  going  to  be  a  lifelong  comrade- 
ship ;  you  would  travel  on  through  all  life's 
streets  together.  But  you  only  passed  on  through 
one  street,  and  forthwith  the  angel  departed 
from  you.  And  you  are  not  yourself  yet,  any 
more  than  Simon  was.  The  streets  seem 
strangely  unreal ;  how  the  wind  bites !  But  like 
Peter  when  he  came  to  himself,  you  too  shall  say, 
*  It  was  the  Lord  who  sent  His  angel  to  deliver 
me.'  There  was  some  work  to  do,  and  it  was 
done.  There  was  some  help  to  give,  and  it  was 
given.  There  were  chains  to  break  and  prison 
doors  to  open,  and  you  can  bear  witness  that  it 
was  all  accomplished.  Remember  the  doctrine 
of  the  departing  angel,  when  the  heart  is  empty 
and  the  grave  is  full. 


UNDEVELOPED  LIVES 

Except  a  com  of  wheat  fall  into  the  ground  and  die,  it  abideth 
alone. — John  xii.  24. 

In  this  summer  season,  when  the  world  Is  at  its 
fairest,  one  thing  that  impresses  us  very  strongly 
is  what  I  might  call  the  prodigality  of  nature. 
Every  flower  is  busy  fashioning  its  seeds  ;  there 
are  trees  with  thousands  of  seed-vessels  upon 
them ;  and  we  know  that  of  all  these  millions  of 
seeds  that  are  now  forming,  not  one  in  ten 
thousand  will  ever  come  to  anything.  Now,  I 
am  not  going  to  speak  of  the  problems  suggested 
by  that  wastefulness  :  I  have  touched  upon  that 
topic  elsewhere.-^  I  wish  rather  to  say  a  word  or 
two  upon  the  subject  of  undeveloped  lives.  In 
every  corn  of  wheat  that  finds  no  congenial  soil, 
there  are  undeveloped  possibilities  of  harvest ; 
and  that  suggests  to  me  the  question  that  often 
vexes  us,  the  question  of  undeveloped  lives. 

1  '  Love's  Wastefulness,'  in  fwod-Tidi. 
84 


UNDEVELOPED  LIVES  85 

There  are  some  seasons  when  we  feel  this  more 
acutely.  Allow  me  to  recall  some  of  these  times 
to  you.  One  is  the  hour  when  we  are  brought 
into  contact  with  a  strong  and  radiant  personality. 
There  is  something  very  stimulating  in  such 
company,  but  often  there  is  something  strangely 
depressing  too.  Most  of  us  have  felt  some 
sinking  of  the  heart  in  the  presence  of  exuberant 
vitality.  I  do  not  mean  that  we  are  repressed  or 
chilled  ;  it  is  not  the  great  souls,  it  is  the  little 
souls,  that  chill  us.  But  I  mean  that  the  possi- 
bilities of  life  so  overwhelm  us,  in  the  splendid 
outflow  of  a  radiant  nature,  that  we  feel 
immediately,  perhaps  to  the  point  of  heart- 
sinking,  how  undeveloped  our  own  life  must  be. 

Again,  we  feel  it  in  these  rarer  moments  that 
come  to  us  all  sometimes,  we  know  not  how — 
moments  when  life  ceases  to  be  a  tangle,  and 
flashes  up  into  a  glorious  unity.  In  such  hours 
it  is  a  joy  to  be  alive  ;  thought  is  intense  ; 
things  quiver  with  significance.  There  is  a 
passing  expansion  of  every  power  and  faculty, 
touched  by  mysterious  influences  we  cannot 
gauge.  I  think  that  for  Jesus  every  hour  was 
like   that.      For  us,   such   hours  are  like  angels' 


86  UNDEVELOPED  LIVES 

visits.  But  when  they  come  they  bring  such 
visions  of  the  possible,  that  we  feel  bitterly  how 
poor  are  our  common  days.  If  this  be  our 
measure  we  are  not  living  to  scale.  If  this  be 
our  waking,  is  not  our  life  a  sleep  ?  It  is  in  the 
rarer  and  loftier  moments,  then,  that  we  apprehend 
the  meaning  of  undeveloped  life. 

But  perhaps  it  is  in  the  presence  of  early 
death  that  the  thought  reaches  us  with  its  full 
pressure.  For  the  tragedy  of  early  death  is  not 
its  suffering :  it  is  the  blighted  promise  and  the 
hope  that  is  never  crowned.  I  scarcely  wonder 
that  in  wellnigh  every  cemetery  you  shall  see  a 
broken  column  as  a  monument.  It  is  hardly 
Christian,  but  it  is  very  human,  and  I  do  not 
think  God  will  be  hard  on  what  is  human.  Wher- 
ever death  is  there  you  have  mystery.  But  in 
the  death  of  the  young  the  mystery  is  doubled. 
And  when  there  were  high  gifts  of  heart  and 
intellect  the  mystery  is  deepened  a  thousandfold. 
Why  all  this  promise?  Why  this  noble  over- 
ture ?  Why,  when  the  pattern  is  just  beginning 
to  show — 

'  Comes  the  blind  fury  with  th'  abhorred  shears 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life  '  ? 


UNDEVELOPED  LIVES  87 

The  great  mystery  of  the  early  grave  is  the 
sorrow  of  undeveloped  lives. 

Now  there  is  one  thing  that  I  should  like  to 
say  in  passing.  It  is  that  in  the  light  of  un- 
developed lives  there  must  be  infinite  pain  in 
the  omniscience  of  God.  Do  you  remember  how 
Robert  Browning  sang, 

*  All,  I  could  never  be 
All,  men  ignored  in  me 
Thts^  I  was  worth  to  God'  ? 

God  recognises  the  value  and  the  power  of  the 
possibilities  we  never  even  see.  We  take  men  as 
we  find  them,  very  largely.  We  do  not  trouble 
about  latent  powers.  If  our  eyes  were  opened, 
in  the  city  street,  to  the  undeveloped  love  and 
gifts  and  character  in  the  crowd,  what  a  new 
sense  of  hopelessness  would  strike  us  !  But  the 
hungering  of  love  we  never  dream  of,  and  the 
craving  of  hearts,  and  the  gifts  that  cannot 
blossom,  all  these  are  clear  as  a  star  to  the 
Eternal,  and  that  is  one  sorrow  of  divine 
omniscience. 

Now  one  of  the  first  things  to  arrest  me  in 
Christ  Jesus  is  His  influence  in  developing  the 
lives    He    touched.       It    is   as    if  God,    in    that 


88  UNDEVELOPED  LIVES 

sorrow  of  omniscience,  had  charged  His  son  to 
call  forth  all  possibilities.  I  doubt  not  there 
were  other  publicans  with  gifts  as  good  as 
Matthew's,  and  other  doctors  quite  as  sincere  as 
Luke  ;  but  under  the  influence  of  Jesus  Christ 
the  gifts  of  these  men  so  leapt  into  noble  exercise, 
that  they  have  made  all  Christendom  their 
debtors,  while  the  rest  are  sleeping  in  unrecorded 
graves.  When  Simon  Peter  first  steps  upon  the 
scene  he  is  a  rash,  impulsive,  and  impetuous  man. 
One  recognises  the  slumbering  greatness  of  him  ; 
but  one  feels  the  boundless  possibilities  of  evil. 
But  Jesus  handles  him  and  plays  upon  him  as 
a  master  musician  might  play  on  his  loved  instru- 
ment, till  the  chords  are  wakened  into  such 
glorious  music  that  the  centuries  are  ringing 
with  it  still.  Nihil  tetigit  quod  non  ornavit :  Jesus 
touched  nothing  which  He  did  not  adorn.  And 
He  adorned,  not  as  we  decorate  our  streets,  but 
as  God  adorns  the  lilies  of  the  field.  He  drew 
from  the  worst  their  unsuspected  best.  He 
kindled  the  love  and  pity  that  were  sleeping. 
He  roused  into  most  effectual  exercise  whatsoever 
gift  or  talent  was  concealed.  And  if  to-day  the 
aggregate  life  of  Christendom  is  infinitely  deeper, 


UNDEVELOPED  LIVES  89 

fuller,  and  more  complex,  than  any  life  the 
world  has  ever  known,  we  largely  owe  it  to  the 
influence  of  Jesus  in  the  development  of  human 
life. 

The  question,  then,  which  I  desire  to  ask  is 
this  :  What  were  the  forces  that  Jesus  used  in 
this  great  work?  And  I  wish  you  to  notice, 
as  it  were  by  way  of  preface,  how  the  historical 
career  of  Jesus  makes  the  thought  of  development 
independent  of  the  years.  We  say  that  the  days 
of  our  years  are  threescore  years  and  ten.  We 
get  to  think  that  threescore  years  are  needed, 
if  human  life  is  to  come  to  its  fruition.  And 
then  we  are  confronted  with  the  life  of  Jesus, 
a  life  symmetrical,  proportioned,  perfect,  and  Jesus 
of  Nazareth  died  at  thirty-three.  Most  lives 
are  just  awaking  into  power  then;  but  the  life 
of  Jesus  was  perfect  in  its  fulness.  Most  of  us 
would  cry  at  thirty-three,  *  It  is  beginning '  ;  but 
Jesus  upon  the  cross  cried,  *  It  is  finished.'  And 
the  great  lesson  which  that  carries  for  every  one  of 
us  is  that  we  must  not  measure  development  by 
time.  There  may  be  years  in  which  every  power 
in  us  is  stagnant.  We  live  in  a  dull  and  most 
mechanical  way.     Then  comes  an  hour  of  call  or 


90  UNDEVELOPED  LIVES 

inspiration,  and  our  whole  being  deepens  and 
expands.  A  crushing  sorrow,  a  crisis,  or  a  joy, 
develops  manhood  with  wonderful  rapidity,  and 
may  do  the  work  of  a  twelvemonth  in  a  week. 
Let  us  remember,  looking  unto  Jesus,  and  noting 
the  shortness  of  that  perfect  life,  that  the  scale  of 
development  is  not  the  scale  of  years. 

What,  then,  were  the  great  forces  Jesus  used  in 
developing  undeveloped  life  ?  The  first  was  His 
central  truth  that  God  Is  love.  He  taught  men 
that  In  heaven  was  a  Father  ;  that  the  heart  that 
fashioned  them  and  ruled  them,  loved  them  ; 
and  in  that  vision  of  the  love  of  God  men  found 
magnificent  environment  for  growth.  I  think 
we  all  know  how  love  develops  character.  I 
think  most  of  us  have  known  that  in  our  hom.es. 
If  In  our  childhood  we  were  despised  or  hated, 
the  most  expensive  schooling  will  not  right  things. 
A  mother's  love  is  the  finest  education.  When 
a  man  is  afraid  he  never  shows  his  best.  When 
all  the  faces  around  him  are  indifferent,  there  is 
no  call  upon  his  powers  to  stir.  But  when  love 
comes,  then  all  the  deeps  are  opened,  and  life 
becomes  doubly  rich  and  doubly  painful,  and 
every    hope     is     quickened,     and    every    desire 


UNDEVELOPED  LIVES  91 

enlarged,  and  common  duties  become  royal 
services,  and  common  words  take  a  new  depth 
of  meaning.  We  all  know  how  love  develops 
character.  That  was  the  first  power  that  Jesus 
used.  He  said  to  a  repressed  and  fearful  world, 
'  God  loves  you.'  And  if  human  life  has  been 
developing  in  Christendom  into  amazing  and 
undreamed-of  amplitude,  it  is  primarily  a  response 
to  that  appeal. 

But  there  was  another  power  that  Jesus  used. 
It  was  the  human  instinct  of  self-surrender.  It  is 
the  glory  of  Jesus  that  He  called  self-surrender 
into  the  service  of  our  self-development. 

There  was  one  religion  in  the  ancient  world 
that  strove  with  all  its  power  to  make  man 
complete.  It  was  the  beautiful  religion  of  the 
Greeks,  and  its  aim  was  to  make  life  a  thing  ot 
beauty.  It  did  not  fail;  but  it  slowly  passed  away. 
It  proved  unequal  to  the  terrible  strain  of  life. 
And  one  reason  of  its  decadence  was  just  this, 
it  had  no  place  for  the  grandeur  of  self-sacrifice. 
Then  rose  the  noble  philosophy  of  Stoicism,  and 
it  grasped  with  both  hands  the  truth  of  self- 
surrender.  It  said  the  first  duty  of  man  is  to 
surrender,  till  he  has  steeled  himself  into  impreg- 


92  UNDEVELOPED  LIVES 

nable  manhood.  It  failed,  because  life  insisted 
on  expansion.  It  failed,  as  every  philosophy 
and  creed  must  fail,  that  says  to  the  God-touched 
soul,  *  Thus  far  thou  shalt  come  and  no  farther.' 
It  had  grasped  the  vital  need  of  self-surrender, 
but  by  self-surrender  it  meant  self-suppression. 

And  then  came  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  Son  of 
God.  And  He  said,  '  If  thine  eye  offend  thee, 
pluck  it  out.'  Surrender  thy  sight,  if  need  be  ; 
but  then  why  ?  That  the  glories  of  heaven  may 
break  upon  the  soul.  And  if  thou  hast  ten 
talents,  give  them  out ;  and  why  }  That  thou 
mayst  have  thine  own  with  usury.  And  if  thou 
art  a  rich  young  ruler,  sell  all  thou  hast ;  and 
why  ?  That  thou  mayst  enter  into  the  deeper, 
larger  life,  that  comes  from  whole-hearted  follow- 
ing of  the  Lord.  The  Greek  had  said,  'Develop 
and  be  happy.'  The  Stoic  had  said,  'Surrender 
and  be  strong.'  But  Jesus  said,  *  You  never  shall 
develop  till  you  have  learned  the  secret  of  sur- 
rendering.' I  think,  then,  that  that  was  Jesus' 
second  power  in  advancing  the  development  of 
life.  He  did  not  only  say,  '  Take  up  thy  cross.' 
There  were  other  teachers  who  might  have  said 
that  too.     But  He  said,  '  Take  up  thy  cross  that 


UNDEVELOPED  LIVES  93 

thou  mayst  follow  Me ' ;  and  He  is  life  abundant 
and  complete. 

Lastly,  and  this  is  the  crowning  inspiration, 
our  Lord  expanded  life  into  eternity.  Our  life 
shall  go  on  developing  for  ever,  under  the 
sunshine  and  in  the  love  of  God.  '  I  go  to 
prepare  a  place  for  you,'  He  said.  The  environ- 
ment of  heaven  shall  be  perfect.  Love  is  at 
work  making  things  ready  for  us  that  we  may 
ripen  in  the  light  for  evermore.  I  know  no 
thought  more  depressing,  as  life  advances,  than 
the  thought  that  a)l  effort  is  to  be  crushed  at 
death.  It  hangs  like  a  weight  of  lead  upon 
the  will,  when  a  man  would  launch  into  some  new 
endeavour.  But  if  death  is  an  incident  and  not 
an  end,  if  every  baffled  striving  shall  be  crowned, 
if  *  All,  I  could  never  be.  All,  men  ignored  in  me,' 
is  to  expand  into  actuaUty  when  I  awake,  I  can 
renew  my  struggle  after  every  failure.  It  is  that 
knowledge,  given  us  by  Jesus,  that  has  inspired 
the  development  of  Christendom.  I  affectionately 
plead  with  you  to  make  it  yours. 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  HAPPINESS 

Happy  art  thou,  O  Israel. — Deut.  xxxiii.  29. 

It  has  often  been  noted  that  we  bestow  least 
thought  upon  our  greatest  blessings.  We  are 
hardly  conscious  of  some  of  our  greatest  mercies, 
so  long  as  God  spares  us  the  enjoyment  of  them. 
When  a  man  is  healthy,  he  thinks  very  little  of 
health.  He  enjoys  it,  but  he  seldom  dwells  on 
it.  And  it  is  only  when  the  day  of  pain  arrives, 
or  when  the  contrast  between  his  own  immunity 
and  the  sufferings  of  some  neighbour  grows 
accentuated,  it  is  only  then  that  a  man  truly 
wakens  to  the  worth  of  the  gift  that  has  been 
his  for  years. 

Now  as  it  is  with  health,  so  is  it  with  happiness. 
The  happy  man  seldom  thinks  how  happy  he  is. 
Other  men  see  it ;  perhaps  feel  a  little  envious. 
It  is  hard  to  be  hving  in  the  mist  and  rain,  when 
over  the  hill  the  sun  is  shining.  But  the  heart 
that  is  happy  is  rarely  introspective.     There  is  a 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  HAPPINESS      95 

childlike  unconsciousness  in  its  enjoyment.  And 
it  is  only  when  the  happiness  removes — when  the 
rose  withers,  when  the  sun  is  darkened — it  is  only 
then  that  the  mind  appreciates  the  pricelessness  of 
what  was  held  and  lost.  I  think,  then,  that  all  the 
world's  talk  of  happiness  is  a  proof  that  unhappi- 
ness  is  abroad.  I  think  that  in  heaven,  where 
every  one  is  happy,  the  question  of  happiness  is 
never  raised  at  all.  It  is  the  unrest  of  life,  it  is 
life's  recurring  agony,  it  i§  the  shadow  of  it  and 
its  pain,  that  make  men  eager  when  happiness  is 
mooted. 

Now  it  is  one  of  the  strange  contradictions  of 
our  faith — and  life  and  the  universe  are  full  of 
such  contradictions — that  the  gospel  should  have 
proved  itself,  unquestionably,  a  powerful  factor  in 
creating  happiness  ;  and  yet  the  central  figure  of 
the  gospel  was  a  Man  of  sorrows  and  acquainted 
with  grief.  The  essence  of  Christianity — said  the 
great  German  poet — the  essence  of  Christianity  is 
the  worship  of  sorrow.  And  though  that  is  false 
in  the  sense  in  which  he  meant  it,  it  is  true  that 
sorrow  lies  bleeding  at  its  centre.  It  cannot  be 
otnerwise  if  Gethsemane  is  there.  It  cannot  be 
otherwise  if  the  centre  be  the  cross.     Yet  out  of 


96      THE  SEARCH  FOR  HAPPINESS 

that  gospel,  where  grief  seems  to  be  crowned,  has 
come,  in  the  mystery  of  God,  our  happiness.  Out 
of  the  cloud  has  come  the  call.  Rejoice  !  One  of 
the  powerful  influences  in  history  making  for  happi- 
ness, without  a  doubt  has  been  the  Christian  faith. 
I  wish  then  to  note  some  gospel  elements  that 
have  helped  to  make  Christendom  a  little  happier. 
I  wish  to  show  that  faith  in  Jesus  Christ  is  meant 
to  give  us  what  all  the  world  's  a-seeking. 

First,  then,  it  is  commonly  admitted  that 
happiness  is  only  gained  as  a  by-product.  I  mean 
that  if  a  man  makes  it  the  business  of  his  life  to 
extract  happiness  from  any  ore,  he  is  almost 
certain  to  have  his  toil  in  vain.  Let  a  man 
deliberately  say,  I  will  be  happy :  I  am  determined 
at  every  cost  to  lead  a  happy  life  ;  the  chances 
are  he  will  be  miserable.  It  is  when  we  do  not 
seek  happiness  that  we  find  it.  It  is  when  we 
strive  to  overcome  life's  gloom,  not  by  new 
pleasures,  but  by  nobler  interests ;  it  is  when 
we  aim  at  something  higher  than  happiness,  that 
happiness  steals  out  and  joins  us  on  the  road. 
Make  it  your  all  in  all,  it  vanishes.  Forget  it,  in 
the  passion  for  sublimer  things,  it  comes.  That  is 
one  of  the  simple  lessons  of  experience. 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  HAPPINESS      97 

Now  I  want  you  to  note  that  the  gospel  of 
Jesus  Christ  deals  with  happiness  along  these  very 
lines.  I  have  read  the  Bible  from  the  first  page 
to  the  last,  but  I  have  never  found  that  the  chief 
end  of  man  was  to  be  happy.  There  have  been 
philosophies  which  have  made  that  their  goal. 
They  have  said  that  the  first  great  end  in  life  was 
to  enjoy.  But  that  is  so  false  to  the  dictates  of 
the  heart,  and  to  the  sore-bought  experience  of 
every  traveller,  that  I  do  not  marvel  these  philo- 
sophies died.  The  gospel  of  Jesus  never  says, 
Be  happy.  The  gospel  does  not  deal  in  little 
ironies.  But  the  gospel  of  Jesus  says,  Be  holy ; 
aim  at  the  highest  and  happiness  will  come. 
Forget  it ;  trust  in  God  ;  do  the  next  duty ;  go 
round  by  Calvary,  if  the  road  lies  there  ;  and 
like  sweet  music  falling  among  the  hills,  or  like  a 
fragrance  wafted  we  know  not  whence  ;  like  the 
springing  of  water  where  we  never  looked  for 
it ;  like  the  shaft  of  light  breaking  the  cloud  above 
us  ;  like  an  angel  unbidden,  happiness  will  come. 
Like  its  Lord,  we  shall  find  it  when  we  sought 
it  not.  Seek  happiness  first,  says  Jesus,  and  be 
baffled.  But  seek  ye  first  the  kingdom  of  God, 
and   all   these   things   shall    be    added    unto    you. 


98      THE  SEARCH  FOR  HAPPINESS 

And  it  is  because  the  gospel  is  true  to  the  heart's 
teaching,  carries  it  forward  and  gives  the  higher 
motive,  that  it  is  such  a  powerful  ally  in  the 
search. 

Once  more,  it  has  been  commonly  recognised 
that  human  happiness  has  two  great  enemies. 
No  doubt  it  has  a  hundred  enemies  ;  but  there 
seem  to  be  two  who  are  its  master- foes.  What 
are  they  ?  Well,  the  one  is  Anxiety,  and  the 
other  is  Ennui  or  Listlessness.  'Anxiety  and 
Ennui,*  says  a  great  writer,^  in  a  book  that  is  full 
of  wisdom  on  the  subject,  *  are  the  Scylla  and 
Charybdis  on  which  the  barque  of  human  happi- 
ness is  wrecked.'  Are  there  not  many  in  the 
church  this  evening  who  would  be  happy  if  they 
could  slay  anxiety  ^  Is  it  not  to-morrow  that  is 
their  sword  of  Damocles,  hanging  suspended  over 
life's  feast  to-day .?  And  surely  we  know,  or  at 
least  we  ought  to  know — it  would  make  us  less 
envious  of  the  idle  rich  if  we  remembered  it — that 
where  there  is  no  purpose  in  the  life,  no  work  to 
grip  the  rebellious  days  together  ;  then  no  wealth, 

1  This  address  was  delivered  on  finding  how  many  of  our  young 
men  were  absorbed  in  Professor  Lecky's  Map  of  Life.  My  indebted- 
ness to  that  noble  book,  and  my  aim  in  so  using  it,  will  be  at  once 
apparent, 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  HAPPINESS      99 

no  luxury,  no  travel,  no  dissipation,  can  ever 
make  the  heart  a  happy  one.  *  Mount  into  your 
railways,'  says  Carlyle,  in  his  own  strong  dramatic 
way,  '  mount  into  your  railways,  and  whirl  from 
place  to  place  at  the  rate  of  fifty,  or  if  you  like 
of  five  hundred  miles  an  hour,  you  cannot  escape 
from  that  inexorable,  all-encircling  ocean  moan  of 
ennui.'  Anxiety,  then,  and  Ennui — listless  weari- 
ness— these  are  the  Scylla  and  Charybdis  of  our 
happiness. 

Now  did  it  ever  strike  you  that  the  gospel  of 
Jesus  is  marvellously  equipped  to  fight  these  foes? 
If  there  are  two  evils  in  the  whole  list  of  evils 
that  the  gospel  can  unhorse  and  hurl  on  to  the 
sand,  I  think  they  are  just  Anxiety  and  Ennui. 
Anxiety.^  The  very  hairs  of  your  head  are 
numbered.  Are  not  two  sparrows  sold  for  a 
farthing,  and  not  one  of  them  can  fall  without 
your  Father?  Cast  thy  burden  on  the  Lord, 
He  will  sustain  thee.  The  everlasting  arms  are 
underneath  thee.  Anxiety?  Shame  on  our  faith- 
lessness !  And  ennui  ? — I  cannot  for  the  life  of 
me  conceive  how  any  Christian  can  be  a  listless 
character.  With  a  soul  to  save,  and  a  character 
to  build,  with  passions  to  master   and   virtues  to 


loo  THE  SEARCH  FOR  HAPPINESS 

achieve,  with  men  to  help  and  with  a  Christ  to 
know,  I  think  there  Is  enough  work  for  the  Idlest. 
That  means,  I  take  It,  that  the  two  great  enemies 
of  happiness  have  no  such  conqueror  as  Jesus 
Christ.  It  means  that  a  living  and  true  faith 
in  Jesus  helps  men  to  what  all  the  world 's 
a-seeking. 

But  once  again,  it  has  been  commonly  admitted 
that  happiness  is  to  be  found  among  Hfe's  common 
things.  It  is  not  the  rare  gifts,  the  possessions 
of  the  few  ;  it  is  not  great  wealth,  great  learning, 
great  genius,  or  great  power  ;  it  Is  not  these  things 
that  make  the  possessors  happy.  It  Is  health,  it 
is  friendship,  it  is  love  at  home  ;  it  is  the  voices 
of  children,  it  is  sunshine.  It  is  the  blessings  that 
are  commonest,  not  those  that  are  rarest ;  it  Is 
the  gifts  that  God  has  scattered  everywhere. 
Professor  Lecky  speaks  of  a  great  writer  who 
had  devoted  almost  his  whole  life  to  one  gigantic 
task.  And  at  last,  to  his  own  surprise,  his  work 
was  ended,  and  congratulations  came  pouring  in 
on  him  from  every  side.  Should  he  not  have 
been  supremely  happy  In  that  P  Should  he  not 
have  been  thrilled  with  a  strong  sense  of  triumph } 
It  was   nothing,   the    writer  said,   nothing  at  all, 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  HAPPINESS    loi 

compared  with  the  joy  he  felt  on  hearing  the 
approaching  footsteps  of  some  little  children  whom 
he  had  taught  to  love  him.  The  greatest  hour  of 
his  life,  and  the  glory  of  it,  could  not  make  him 
so  happy  as  the  pattering  footsteps. 

And  now  comes  in  the  gospel  of  Jesus,  with 
its  great  power  to  consecrate  the  commonplace. 
For  is  it  not  the  glory  of  Christ  Jesus  that  He 
hath  exalted  them  of  low  degree  ?  It  is  not  on 
the  rare  gifts  that  the  gospel  puts  the  emphasis. 
It  is  on  the  worth  and  power  of  lowly  blessings. 
A  Christian,  as  one  has  said,  is  not  a  man 
who  does  extraordinary  things  ;  he  is  a  man  who 
does  the  ordinary  things,  but  he  does  them  in  an 
extraordinary  way.  He  brings  the  greatest  to 
bear  upon  the  least.  He  flashes  on  the  very 
humblest  task  the  light  that  never  was  on  land  or 
sea.  He  links  his  commonest  joy  on  to  the  chain 
that  runs  right  up  to  the  throne  of  the  eternal. 
In  other  words,  the  gospel  gives  added  meaning 
to  the  very  elements  in  life  that  make  us  happy. 
It  lays  its  stress  not  on  the  rarities,  but  on  the 
common  blessings  that  are  the  source  of  happi- 
ness. And  so  emphasising  them,  so  guarding  and 
crowning  them,  it  vastly  increases  the  possibilities 


102    THE  SEARCH  FOR  HAPPINESS 

of  happiness,  and  helps  men  to  what  all  the 
world  's  a-seeking. 

Lastly,  I  was  much  impressed  by  a  word  quoted 
from  a  modern  novelist ;  and  a  true  novelist 
should  know  something  of  this  matter,  for  it  is 
the  distinctive  genius  of  the  novelist  to  interpret 
the  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  heart.  Well,  one  of 
our  modern  novelists  defines  happiness  thus  : 
'  Happiness  is  a  great  love  and  much  service.' 
Love  without  service  is  a  dream,  a  sentiment. 
And  service  without  love  is  taskwork  always. 
But  happiness  is  a  great  love  and  much 
service  :  that  is  the  dictum  of  one  who  ought  to 
know. 

Now  the  remarkable  thing  is  that  if  any  one 
asked  me  to  define  Christianity,  I  think  these  are 
the  very  words  that  I  should  use.  If  any  one 
said  to  me,  '  What  is  Christianity — I  mean  what 
is  living  and  experienced  Christianity  ? '  I  should 
answer,  'It  is  a  great  love  and  much  service.' 
For  Christianity  is  more  than  love.  It  is  love 
militant,  love  going  out  to  serve.  And  Christianity 
is  more  than  service.  It  is  service  rooted  in  the 
love  of  Christ.  Now  I  do  not  suppose  that 
the   novelist    was  thinking    of  Christ    when    she 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  HAPPINESS    103 

defined  happiness  so.  She  just  wanted  to  tell 
what  happiness  was,  and  she  stumbled  on  the 
gospel  by  mistake.  Christ  known,  Christ  loved, 
Christ  served — yes !  that  is  happiness.  There 
is  none  other  like  it  in  the  world. 


CURIOSITY 

And  He  smote  the  men  of  Bethshemesh  because  they  had  looked 
into  the  ark  of  the  Lord. —  i  Sam.  vi.  19. 

It  was  a  great  day  for  the  men  of  Bethshemesh 
when  the  kine  came  lowing  along  the  highway, 
and  the  ark  of  God  was  restored  to  them  again. 
It  was  like  the  restoration  of  nationality,  when 
they  spied  that  symbol  of  God  upon  the  cart. 
The  ark  had  been  a  prisoner  with  the  Philistines. 
Now  it  was  back  again,  and  there  was  hope. 
I  do  not  wonder  that  they  rejoiced  to  see  it,  as 
they  were  reaping  their  wheat  harvest  in  the 
valley. 

But  joy  has  got  its  perils  as  well  as  sorrow. 
To  be  too  glad  is  sometimes  dangerous.  The 
heavens  are  all  blue ;  the  only  cloud  on  the 
infinite  expanse  is  but  a  speck  no  bigger  than  a 
man's  hand  ;  but  elements  of  storm  and  thunder 
may  be  in  it.  So  was  it  at  Bethshemesh  as  they 
rejoiced    while    they    were    reaping    their    wheat 


CURIOSITY  105 

harvest  in  the  valley.  They  were  so  happy,  they 
forgot  themselves  ;  somethhig  of  reverence  and 
awe  had  passed  away.  Here  was  the  ark  ;  but 
were  the  old  tables  of  stone  inside  the  ark  ?  Or 
had  the  Philistines,  with  their  impious  hands, 
made  havoc  of  that  writing  of  God's  finger  ? 
Oh  how  they  longed  to  know  !  Until  at  last, 
somewhat  unhinged  by  joy,  and  it  may  be  a 
little  flushed  with  wine,  their  burning  curiosity 
overmastered  them,  and  they  looked  into  the 
ark  of  the  Lord.  And  God  was  angry  at  that 
rude  impertinence,  and  He  smote  the  men  of 
Bethshemesh  that  they  died.  And  the  joy  of 
harvest  was  turned  into  a  dirge,  because  the 
Lord  had  smitten  many  of  the  people. 

You  see,  then,  what  the  sin  of  Bethshemesh 
was.  It  was  the  sin  of  unlawful  curiosity.  It 
was  the  irreverent  prying  of  the  thoughtless 
into  the  secret  place  of  the  Creator.  Now  do 
you  think  the  circumstance  exceptional  ?  A  tale 
of  some  old  and  Oriental  history  ^  O  friend, 
although  there  are  no  golden  cherubim  with 
touching  wings  over  the  mercy-seat,  although 
there  are  no  staves  to  bear  it  by,  no  tables  of 
grey   stone   from  Sinai  in  it,    remember  there  is 


io6  CURIOSITY 

still  an  ark  of  God  !  There  is  an  ark  of  God 
wherever  man  is,  for  the  presence  of  the  Infinite 
is  there.  There  is  an  ark  of  God  wherever 
Christ  is,  for  in  Him  dwelleth  the  fulness  of 
the  Godhead  bodily.  And  when  I  peer  love- 
lessly  into  my  neighbour's  character,  and  when 
I  gaze  irreverently  on  the  heart-mysteries  of 
Immanuel,  I  do  not  know  but  that  in  the  sight 
of  God  I  am  as  guilty  as  Bethshemesh  was. 

Of  course  there  is  a  curiosity  which  is  lawful ; 
there  is  a  curiosity  which  is  really  noble.  We 
should  never  have  reached  our  present  heights 
of  knowledge — the  race  would  have  been  station- 
ary and  stagnant — but  for  the  fierce  inquisitive- 
ness  to  know.  Whenever  I  hear  the  questions 
of  my  child,  I  am  carried  back  to  the  childhood 
of  the  race.  And  in  the  boundless  curiosity  of 
the  raggedest  bairn,  I  am  near  the  secret  of 
intellectual  progress.  And  yet  the  noblest 
curiosity  is  seldom  wholly  and  solely  intellectual. 
It  has  roots  in  the  heart ;  it  moves  in  a  moral 
atmosphere  ;  it  has  visions  of  larger  life  and 
holier  conduct.  Far  off,  it  does  not  culminate 
in  self.  It  culminates  and  finds  its  crown  in 
God. 


CURIOSITY  107 

A  recent  writer  has  illustrated  this  well,  and 
shown  us  this  difference  between  lawful  and  un- 
lawful curiosity,  by  distinguishing  the  two  different 
kinds  of  knowledge  that  a  son  may  wish  to 
have  of  his  father.  One  son  might  be  intensely 
curious  to  know  his  father's  mind,  his  father's 
heart.  He  is  eager  to  learn  what  his  father  loves 
and  hates,  that  he  may  love  what  takes  his  father's 
love,  and  hate  the  objects  of  his  father's  hate. 
He  wants  to  be  like  his  father  in  his  character. 
That  son  is  nobly  and  lawfully  inquisitive.  But 
another  son  is  curious  to  know  what  his  father 
is  worth,  and  how  much  he  will  likely  leave. 
He  wants  to  know  if  he  can  plunge  into  debt, 
and  if  he  can  count  on  a  life  of  pleasure 
afterwards.  And  there  is  nothing  moral, 
nothing  fine  in  that.  It  is  a  poor  and  worthless 
curiosity. 

Now  which  is  your  curiosity  about  God  ?  That 
is  the  question,  children  of  the  King  !  All  idle 
curiosity  ends  in  self  It  is  myself,  and  my  self- 
love,  it  wants  to  gratify.  But  the  curiosity  that 
is  a  moral  power  rests  in  the  infinite  providence 
of  God  ;  prys  not,  for  the  mere  sake  of  prying, 
in    the   dark ;   believes   that    even   in   mystery   is 


io8  CURIOSITY 

good  news  ;  then  asks,  and  seeks,  and  knocks, 
wherever  God  is,  for  it  knows  that  love  and  life 
and  power  are  there.  In  other  words,  it  is  faith 
that  makes  the  difference.  It  is  trust  that  deter- 
mines the  virtue  or  the  sin.  There  is  a  kind 
of  curiosity  that  dies,  the  moment  I  trust  my 
brother  or  my  God.  It  is  not  when  I  believe, 
it  is  when  I  disbelieve,  that  I  become  imperti- 
nently curious.  Had  Eve  but  trusted  God  with 
all  her  heart,  she  had  never  been  curious  about 
the  fatal  tree.  Had  the  men  of  Bethshemesh 
but  trusted  in  Jehovah,  and  that  He  could  guard 
His  own  among  the  Philistines,  they  had  never 
been  so  curious  about  the  ark.  Had  you  and  I 
faith  as  a  grain  of  mustard-seed,  there  would  be 
less  impertinence  abroad.  O  brother,  we  need  a 
deeper  trust ;  trust  in  the  possibilities  of  every 
man,  trust  in  the  intellect  that  plans  and  guides. 
It  is  on  that  that  the  reverent,  earnest  curiosity 
is  built  which  carries  a  man  to  his  noblest  and 
his  best ! 

So  necessary  is  this  lawful  curiosity,  and  so 
useful  for  the  enriching  of  humanity,  that  it  is 
quite  clear  to  any  fair  observer  that  God  is  at  great 
pains  to  rouse  it  in  us.      It   is  one  of  the  arts  of 


CURIOSITY  109 

a  loving  and  kindly  God,  to  excite  the  curiosity 
of  His  dull  children. 

Think  of  the  world,  for  instance.  Did  it 
ever  occur  to  you  how  the  wonderful  beauty  of 
the  world  stirs  a  strange  curiosity  in  the  soul 
about  the  Eternal  ?  It  is  the  veiled  figure  in  the 
crowd  that  rouses  interest,  and  the  beauty  of 
nature  is  the  veil  of  God.  A  man  may  be  a 
chemist  or  a  scientist,  and  be  so  engrossed  in 
his  particular  study,  that  he  never  feels  the 
pressure  of  the  infinite.  But  in  the  presence  of 
some  glorious  sunset,  the  noisiest  chatterer  grows 
still  a  moment :  it  is  as  if  it  cried  to  him,  ^  Be 
still,  thou  noisy  one  ;  this  splendour  is  the  evening 
garment  of  thy  God.'  So  beauty,  whatever  other 
ends  it  serves,  helps  to  awaken  the  mystical  in 
man ;  suggests  far  more  than  it  can  ever  prove  ; 
hints  that  beyond  the  logic  of  the  creed  there  is 
something  we  cannot  grasp  and  cannot  utter.  It 
is  the  veil  of  the  eternal  figure.  It  keeps  us 
curious,  eager,  childlike  till  the  end. 

Or  think  of  the  great  fact  of  personality.  Is 
not  God  at  pains  to  make  us  lovingly  curious 
there  ?  There  is  not  a  soul  but  is  wrapped  in 
strange    disguises  ;    there   is    not   a    heart    but   is 


no  CURIOSITY 

veiled  and  hidden  somehow  ;  all  which,  through 
the  ceaseless  interactions  of  mankind,  is  one  of 
the  ways  of  God  to  keep  us  curious.  If  I  could 
read  my  brother  like  a  book  ;  if  I  could  see  into 
his  very  depths  ;  if  I  could  reckon  him  up,  and 
take  his  measure  ;  if  there  were  nothing  veiled 
and  hidden  in  him — I  should  never  be  curious 
about  my  brother  again.  But  in  every  man 
there  is  an  unexpected  :  something  of  mystery, 
a  veil,  a  problem  ;  and  just  because  we  have  been 
fashioned  so,  we  are  all  and  always  of  interest  to 
each  other.  It  is  that  interest,  degenerate  and 
corrupt,  that  makes  the  busybody  and  the  scandal- 
bearer.  It  is  that  same  interest,  touched  by  the 
spirit  of  God,  that  breaks  into  sympathy  and 
brotherly  kindness.  Without  it,  we  should  all 
be  indifferent  to  each  other. 

Think  of  the  Bible.  Is  there  any  book  that 
was  ever  given  to  man  that  stimulates  curiosity 
like  that.^  It  has  been  read,  and  studied,  and 
fed  upon,  and  prayed  through,  for  nineteen 
centuries  of  growth  and  change,  and  the  world 
is  curious  about  the  Bible  still.  No  man  is 
curious  about  the  Shorter  Catechism.  The  Con- 
fession of   Faith    excites  no  curiosity.     Yet  the 


CURIOSITY  1 1 1 

truths  of  the  Bible  are  gathered  up  in  these,  and 
they  are  a  noble  part  of  our  inheritance.  But  the 
Bible  is  so  simple,  yet  so  deep  ;  so  stern  and 
majestic,  yet  so  beautiful  :  it  has  the  secret  of 
such  a  sweet  reserve  ;  it  casts  the  veil  of  silence 
with  such  delicacy,  and  just  at  the  point  where 
we  should  give  worlds  for  more  ;  that  like  the 
beauty  of  nature  and  the  fact  of  character,  it 
leaves  us  eager,  stimulated,  longing,  curious. 
O  restless,  curious  heart,  be  not  discouraged  ! 
That  craving  has  been  stirred  by  the  Almighty. 
Do  not  degrade  it.  Consecrate  it.  Trust  it. 
You  shall  be  satisfied  when  you  awake. 

In  closing,  let  me  speak  a  word  about  Jesus' 
treatment  of  the  curious  spirit.  And  we  cannot 
study  the  gospels  without  seeing — and  it  is  very 
important  that  we  see  it — that  Jesus  was  fully 
alive  to  the  difference  between  lawful  and  un- 
lawful curiosity.  When  we  remember  how  He 
hid  Himself ;  when  we  think  that  in  every  miracle 
there  is  some  reserve,  so  that  there  is  always 
ample  room  for  curiosity,  and  no  man  is  ab- 
solutely compelled  to  believe  ;  above  all,  when 
we  recall  the  parables,  and  think  how  they  sug- 
gested, stimulated,   roused,  and   sent   men   home 


112  CURIOSITY 

to  question  and  to  wonder — we  see  at  once  that 
Jesus  recognised  the  place  of  curiosity  as  a  re- 
ligious force. 

But  then,  on  the  other  hand,  remember  this. 
One  day  there  came  an  idly-curious  man  to  Jesus, 
and  he  asked,  '  Lord,  are  there  few  that  be  saved  ^ ' 
And  Jesus,  turning  to  him  sharply,  said,  '  Strive 
ye  to  enter  in  at  the  strait  gate.'  And  another 
day,  after  He  had  risen  from  the  grave,  you 
remember  how  Peter  came,  all  curiosity,  and  said, 
*  Lord,  and  what  shall  this  man  do  ? '  And  Jesus 
said  to  him,  '  What  is  that  to  thee  :  follow  thou 
Me.'  In  both,  the  curiosity  was  idle.  In  both,  it 
was  met  in  the  same  way  by  Christ.  They  were 
recalled  from  questioning  to  quest.  They  were 
brought  back  to  action  and  to  duty.  There  was 
something  for  them  to  do — then  let  them  do  it. 
The  other  matters  may  be  left  to  God. 

So  when  thou  art  tempted  to  be  idly  curious, 
tempted  to  pry  into  forbidden  things,  I  bid  thee 
remember  that  brief  command  of  Jesus,  '  What 
is  that  to  thee  :  follow  thou  Me.'  Thou  hast 
a  soul  to  save.  Thou  hast  a  life  to  sweeten. 
Thou  hast  a  cross  to  carry.  Thou  hast  a  heaven 
to  win.     There  is  really  no    time  to  be  nastily 


CURIOSITY  I 


3 


inquisitive.  Call  home  that  utterly  unworthy 
curiosity.  Do  your  own  work  to  your  own 
music.  And  when  this  little  sleep  is  over  and 
we  waken,  we  shall  have  such  a  long  and  steady 
look  into  the  Ark,  that  we  shall  say  it  was  worth 
waiting  for. 


SEEMING  TO  HAVE 

From  him  shall  be  taken  even  that  which  he  seemeth  to  have. — 
Luke  viii.  i8. 

You  will  observe  that  when  our  Lord  speaks  of 
the  man  who  seems  to  have,  He  is  not  referring 
to  the  hypocrite.  Our  Lord  poured  out  the  vials 
of  His  wrath  upon  the  hypocrite,  but  it  is  not 
the  hypocrite  who  is  in  question  here.  There  is 
a  sense  in  which  every  hypocrite  seems  to  have. 
He  makes  pretensions  to  virtues  or  to  graces 
that  he  does  not  in  reality  possess.  But  then  he 
is  aware,  more  or  less  clearly,  that  he  lacks  them. 
The  hypocrite  deceives  others,  not  himself.  But 
this  is  a  case  of  genuine  self-deception.  The  man 
is  not  practising  trickery  on  anybody.  There  are 
things  that  a  man  may  imagine  that  he  has,  and 
Jesus  says  he  only  seems  to  have  them. 

There  are  one  or  two  notable  instances  of  this 
in  the  New  Testament.  For  example,  there  is 
the  Pharisee  in  the  parable.     We  quite  mistake 

lU 


SEEMING  TO  HAVE  ii 


the  meaning  of  that  parable  if  we  think  that  the 
Pharisee  was  consciously  a  hypocrite.  The  moral 
of  the  story  lay  in  this,  that  it  was  spoken  to  those 
who  trusted  in  themselves  that  they  were  righteous. 
The  Pharisee  thanked  God  quite  sincerely  that  he 
was  a  great  deal  better  than  his  neighbour.  He 
b'eheved  most  genuinely  in  his  superior  self. 
There  was  no  question  in  his  own  mind  of  his 
possessions.  And  the  tragedy  of  the  man's  career 
is  found  in  this,  that  he  only  seemed  to  have. 

On  a  larger  stage  we  are  faced  by  the  same 
spirit  in  the  Church  of  Laodicea  in  the  Apoca- 
lypse. It  was  a  very  prosperous  and  comfortable 
church.  I  am  rich,  it  said.  I  am  increased  with 
goods,  I  have  need  of  nothing.  An  exceedingly 
snug  and  smug  society,  with  its  own  peculiar 
Laodicean  smile.  Yet  thou  art  wretched,  said 
the  spirit  of  God  ;  and  thou  art  miserable,  and 
poor  and  blind  and  naked !  The  tragedy  of 
that  church's  career  is  found  in  this,  that  it,  too, 
only  seemed  to  have. 

I  venture,  then,  to  speak  for  a  little  this  evening 
on  that  most  subtle  form  of  self-deceit.  There  is 
probably  not  one  of  us,  in  pew  or  pulpit,  but  is 
giving  himself  credit  for  what  he  does  not  possess. 


ii6  SEEMING  TO  HAVE 

Now,  how  is  this  ?  Can  we  detect  the  causes  of 
this  delusion  ?  I  shall  endeavour  to  touch  on 
some  of  them. 

The  first  and  the  most  innocent  of  all  is  in- 
experience. In  all  inexperience  there  is  a  seeming 
to  have,  which  the  rough  and  pushing  world  helps 
to  dispel.  I  take  it  that  every  rightly  constituted 
youth  has  a  kind  of  lurking  scorn  for  all  his 
ancestors.  All  things  are  possible  to  faith,  says 
the  apostle.  And  all  things  are  possible  to  one- 
and-twenty  also.  Unmatched  with  the  intellect 
and  power  of  the  great  world,  untried  by  the 
searching  discipline  of  life,  we  seem  to  have 
aptitudes,  touches  of  heaven  within  us,  that  will 
carry  us  to  the  front  imperiously.  And  then  we 
are  launched  into  the  great  deeps  of  life,  and  we 
find  there  were  brave  men  before  Agamemnon. 
It  is  a  humbling  and  sobering  experience.  We 
have  to  recast  everything,  before  we  are  through. 
But  at  least  we  come  to  know  what  we  possess. 
We  learn  what  we  can  do,  and  what  we  cannot. 
When  we  were  immature  and  inexperienced, 
before  we  had  come  to  grips  with  actuality — ah, 
then  we  seemed  to  have.  To-day  we  have  far  less, 
but  it  is  ours. 


SEEMING  TO  HAVE  117 

Again,    this     strange    deception    is    intimately 
connected  with  self-love.     We  seem  to  have  much 
that  we   do   not  really  have,  simply  because  we 
love   ourselves    so   well.      In   all    love,    even    the 
very  purest,  there  is  a  subtle  and  most  exquisite 
flattery.     Love  is  not  worthy  of  its  name  at  all, 
unless  it  clothes  its  object  with  a  thousand  graces. 
You  who  are  fathers  and  you  who  are  mothers  here 
— you  don't  know  how  much  you  seem  to  have  to 
your  young  children.     It  is  enough  to  make  the 
hardest  of  us   cry  to   God  for  mercy  when  we 
remember  that,  to  our  child  of  five,  we  are  still 
perfect.     You  know  the  kind  of  week  you  spent 
last  week  ;  yet  to  your  little  family  there  is  not 
a  stain  on  you.     Such  love  is  wonderful,  passing 
the  love  of  women.     And  was  there  ever  a  mother 
who  was  not  quite  convinced  that  her  one-year- 
old  was  a  most  marvellous  child  ?     He  seems  to 
have,  because  she  loves  him  so.      I  think  you  see, 
then,  the  point  I  wish  to  make.     Love  can  make 
any  wilderness  blossom  as  the  rose.     And  never  a 
child  loved  the  most  honoured  father,  and  never 
a  mother  loved  the  dearest  child,  more  passion- 
ately than  most  men  love  themselves.      It  is  thus 
that  to  the  end  we  seem  to  have,  just  because  self- 


ii8  SEEMING  TO  HAVE 

love  is  dominant.  It  is  thus  that  he  that  hateth 
his  life  for  Christ's  sake  begins  to  learn  the  secret 
of  self-knowledge. 

Often,  again,  we  imagine  we  possess,  because  of 
the  pressure  of  the  general  life  around  us.  We 
move  in  certain  circles  of  society  ;  we  are  sur- 
rounded by  what  we  call  public  opinion  ;  and  by 
the  pressure  of  our  environment  upon  us,  our  life 
takes  its  colour  and  its  trend.  Now  I  am  far 
from  saying  that  these  outward  influences  may 
not  have  a  very  real  efi^ect  on  a  man's  character. 
Some  of  the  most  useful  habits  we  can  form  may 
be  formed  through  compliance  with  social  con- 
vention. But  there  is  always  the  danger  of 
mistaking  for  our  own  the  support  we  get  from 
the  society  we  move  in.  And  it  is  only  when 
that  external  pressure  is  removed  that  we  discover 
how  we  only  seemed  to  have.  Put  any  man  of 
average  sensibility  into  the  company  of  born 
enthusiasts,  and  in  a  week's  time  you  shall  have 
him  enthusiastic.  There  are  hours  when  the 
dullest  talker  feels  that  he  is  getting  on  excellently 
in  conversation,  and  it  is  not  till  afterwards  that 
it  begins  to  dawn  on  him  that  some  one  else  had 
the    magnetic    charm.       We    seem    to    have,    we 


SEEMING  TO  HAVE  119 

think  that  we  possess  ;  but  the  possession  is  not 
really  ours.  Here  is  a  man  living  at  home  in 
Scotland,  a  man  of  correct,  perhaps  exemplary 
conduct.  He  is  a  regular  churchgoer  at  home  ; 
he  is  quite  interested  in  church  affairs.  But  he 
goes  abroad  to  China  or  to  India,  and  there  is 
little  of  the  old  Scottish  feeling  round  him  now ; 
and  gradually,  almost  insensibly,  he  drifts  away 
from  the  old  reverence,  till  the  kindliest  critic 
dare  not  call  him  religious.  What  I  want  you  to 
note  is  that  that  man  was  not  a  hypocrite.  He 
was  not  consciously  deceiving  anybody  when  he 
lived  that  exemplary  life  at  home.  He  never 
possessed  his  possessions,  that  was  all.  He 
was  guided  and  moulded  by  an  outward  pres- 
sure. He  seemed  to  have  the  root  of  the  matter 
in  himself,  and  it  lay  in  his  surroundings  all  the 
time. 

Now  our  Lord  tells  us  the  fate  of  these  fancied 
possessions.  From  him  shall  be  taken  even  that 
which  he  seemeth  to  have.  Sooner  or  later,  as 
our  life  advances,  we  shall  have  our  eyes  opened 
to  these  fond  delusions.  We  are  to  be  so  led, 
each  one  of  us,  that  there  will  be  no  mistaking 
what   is  really  ours.      I    want  to  ask,   then,  what 


120  SEEMING  TO  HAVE 

are  God's  commoner  methods  for  making  clear  to 
us  what  we  only  seem  to  have. 

One  of  the  commonest  of  them  all  is  action. 
We  learn  what  we  possess  by  what  we  do. 
There  are  powers  within  each  of  us  waiting  to  be 
developed  ;  there  are  dreams  within  each  of  us 
waiting  to  be  dispelled,  and  it  is  by  going  forward 
in  the  strength  of  God  that  we  learn  our  limita- 
tion and  our  gift.  I  am  sure  there  is  not  one 
man  in  middle  life  here  but  has  been  surprised 
by  the  revelations  of  his  past.  He  has  been 
called  to  work  he  never  dreamed  of  doing  ;  his 
way  has  led  him  far  differently  from  his  wish. 
There  were  gifts  which  you  were  quite  certain 
that  you  had  ;  but  the  years  have  gone,  and  you 
are  not  so  certain  now.  Meantime,  out  of  the 
depths  of  self,  some  unsuspected  powers  have 
been  emerging,  and  the  hand  that  has  quickened 
them  into  life  is  duty.  The  men  who  do  nothing, 
always  seem  to  have.  So-and-so  is  a  genius,  we 
say  ;  if  he  would  only  exert  himself,  what  he  might 
do  !  Well,  probably  he  would  cease  to  be  called 
a  genius  if  he  did,  and,  therefore,  he  is  wise  in 
doing  nothing.  I  do  not  call  that  genius.  I  call  it 
cowardice.     Life  is  given  us  just  to  find  out  what 


SEEMING  TO  HAVE  121 

we  can  do.  And  it  is  through  a  thousand  tryings 
and  a  thousand  failures  that  we  come  to  find 
what  is  really  our  own.  That  is  one  of  the  great 
gains  of  earnest  duty.  We  learn  from  it  the 
confines  of  our  kingdom.  It  is  by  action  that 
there  is  taken  from  us  that  which  we  only  seem 
to  have. 

This,  too,  is  one  great  gain  of  life's  variety. 
It  shows  us  what  is  really  our  own.  We  are 
tested  on  every  side  as  life  proceeds,  and  every 
mood  and  change  and  tear  is  needed,  if  we  are  to 
be  wakened  to  what  we  seem  to  have.  It  is  so 
easy  to  be  patient  when  there  is  no  worry.  When 
there  is  no  peril,  it  is  so  easy  to  be  brave.  It  is 
when  the  whirhgig  of  time  brings  its  revenges 
that  we  discover  more  exactly  what  we  own.  If 
I  want  to  know  the  value  of  an  army,  I  must  wait 
till  the  campaign  has  tested  it.  It  may  seem  to 
be  perfectly  equipped  for  service,  yet  a  month  on 
the  field  may  teach  us  other  things.  So  you  and 
I,  seeming  to  have  so  much,  are  marched  into 
battle,  led  over  weary  miles ;  we  are  kept  waiting, 
we  are  bafHed,  wounded  ;  till  out  of  all  that 
changeful  discipline,  that  which  we  seemed  to  have 
is  taken  from  us.     One  of  the  functions  of  our 


122  SEEMING  TO  HAVE 

vicissitudes  is  to  strip  us  bare  of  what  we  seemed 
to  have.  Life  is  so  ordered  for  us  in  its  heights 
and  depths,  its  changes,  its  hopes,  its  sufferings, 
its  fears,  that,  unless  we  are  blind,  we  shall  dis- 
cover gradually  all  that  is  ours  and  all  that  only 
seems  so. 

And  if  life  fails,  remember  death  is  left. 
Death  is  the  great  touchstone  of  the  man.  We 
may  be  self-deceived  for  threescore  years  and  ten, 
but  the  deception  ceases  on  the  other  side.  There 
we  shall  know  even  as  we  are  known.  Know 
what?  Among  other  things,  ourselves.  There 
will  be  no  delusions  concerning  our  possessions 
when  our  eyes  open  on  that  eternal  dawn.  I  bid 
you  remember  there  will  be  no  seeming  to  have, 
before  the  great  white  throne  and  Him  who  sits 
on  it.  All  that  is  accidental  and  imaginary  will 
be  revealed  in  the  light  of  that  great  day.  If  we 
have  never  let  action  do  its  work,  and  never  seen 
ourselves  amid  life's  changes,  we  have  not  escaped 
the  judgment  of  the  Christ. 

I  have  sometimes  thought,  too,  and  with  this  I 
close,  that  the  words  might  apply  even  to  those 
we  love.  Is  it  not  true,  in  the  realm  of  the 
affections,    that   sometimes    we   have    and    some- 


SEEMING  TO  HAVE  123 

times  we  seem  to  have  P  We  are  thrown  into 
close  relationship  with  others  ;  we  are  bound  to 
them  with  this  tie  and  with  that.  We  call  them 
friends ;  we  think  we  love  them,  perhaps.  Is  it 
real,  or  is  it  only  seeming  ^  Nothing  can  tell 
that  but  the  strain  of  life,  and  the  testing  of  friend- 
ship through  its  lights  and  shadows.  Nothing 
can  tell  that  finally  but  death.  All  that  seemed 
love,  and  was  not  really  love  ;  all  that  we  fancied 
or  mistook  for  friendship  ;  all  thai  is  taken  from 
us,  passes  away,  in  the  hour  and  the  separation  of 
the  grave.  But  true  affection  is  an  immortal 
thing ;  nothing  can  separate  us  from  love  indeed. 
Where  hearts  unite,  there  is  eternity.  And  in 
eternity  partings  are  unknown. 


A  PLEA   FOR   SIMPLICITY 

The  simplicity  that  is  in  Christ. — 2  Cor.  xi.  3. 

There  are  some  words  that  have  a  tragic  history. 
To  the  hearing  ear  and  to  the  understanding 
heart  they  whisper  strange  secrets  about  human 
progress.  If  we  could  follow  them  through  all 
their  changing  meanings  we  should  be  reading 
the  story  of  mankind.  Nor,  indeed,  when  we 
think  of  it,  is  this  to  be  wondered  at.  For 
language  is  the  echo  of  the  soul.  And  whenever 
the  soul  of  man  has  struggled  heavenward  I  shall 
hear  its  echo  high  among  the  hills.  The  man 
who  thoroughly  knew  the  English  tongue  could 
almost  sit  down  and  write  an  English  history. 
It  is  because  we  now  rise  and  now  fall  that  words 
become  ennobled  or  debased. 

Now  one  of  the  words  that  has  a  pitiful  history 
is  that  word  simple.  It  has  wandered  far  from 
the  simplicity  of  Christ.  It  has  so  changed  its 
dress,   and  lost   its   early  character,   that  we    are 

124 


A  PLEA  FOR  SIMPLICITY         125 

almost  ashamed  to  keep  it  company.  Once,  to 
be  simple  meant  to  be  free  from  guile.  Sim- 
plicity was  the  opposite  of  duplicity.  But  in  the 
struggle  with  the  world's  sharp  wits  the  guileless 
man  has  generally  fared  so  badly,  that  the  simple 
man  has  become  the  simpleton.  I  warrant  you 
there  was  a  world  of  holy  meaning  in  the  word 
innocent,  when  Adam  and  Eve  first  felt  the  taint 
of  sin.  Yet  now  we  look  at  the  idiot,  and  we 
pity  him,  and  we  say,  '  He  is  an  innocent.'  So 
once  to  be  simple  meant  to  be  a  Nathanael.  And 
now  it  almost  means  to  be  a  fool. 

And  yet,  if  we  have  ever  studied  history  at  all, 
we  must  have  been  struck  with  a  certain  sweet 
simplicity  about  the  characters  of  the  very  greatest 
men.  There  is  something  of  the  child  about  the 
greatest;  a  certain  freshness,  a  kind  of  sweet 
unconsciousness  ;  a  happy  taking  of  themselves 
on  trust ;  a  sort  of  play-element  throughout  the 
drama.  And  all  the  time,  powerfully,  perhaps 
silently,  they  were  swaying  and  steering  this  poor 
tossed  world.  Did  you  never  feel  that  simplicity 
in  Martin  Luther  ?  And  did  it  never  arrest  you 
in  George  Washington.'^  And  did  you  never 
mark  it  in  the  great  Duke  of  Wellington  ?     One 


126         A  PLEA  FOR  SIMPLICITY 

of  the  finest  odes  Tennyson  ever  wrote  was  his 
ode  upon  the  death  of  that  great  duke.  And  I 
know  not  if  in  all  the  noble  verse  of  it,  it  rises 
to  anything  loftier  than  this  : — 

Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 
Rich  in  saving  common-sense, 
And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 
In  his  simplicity  sublime. 

The  greatest  souls,  then,  have  been  truly  simple. 
It  is  that  simple  element  that  has  charmed  the 
world.  And  I  cannot  think  of  any  better  witness 
to  the  abiding  charm  of  true  simplicity,  than  the 
way  in  which  vice  has  always  tried  to  imitate  it. 
Make  up  your  mind  clearly  on  this  point :  that 
sin  is  never  simple,  it  is  subtle.  You  may  reject 
the  story  of  Eden  if  you  will,  but  the  insinuating 
serpent  is  still  sin.  All  sin  is  subtle,  intricate, 
involved  ;  leading  a  man  into  an  infinite  maze. 
It  can  give  a  hundred  reasons  for  its  counsel, 
when  a  good  conscience  is  content  with  one.  Do 
you  remember  how  the  great  poet  of  Germany  in 
his  immortal  tragedy  of  Faust — do  you  remember 
how  he  pictures  Mephistopheles  as  the  master  of 
a  consummate  subtilty  ?  He  is  always  changing, 
that  evil   incarnation.     He  is  always  compliant  : 


A  PLEA  FOR  SIMPLICITY         12; 

he  is  never  the  same.  To  Margaret  he  is  one 
thing,  and  to  Faust  another.  He  is  exquisitely 
accommodating  everywhere — until  we  feel  afresh 
how  subtle  sin  is,  what  an  utter  stranger  to 
genuine  simplicity  !  And  when  sin  shams  that 
it  is  very  simple — and  it  is  very  fond  of  that 
device — we  learn  how  attractive  simplicity  must 
be.  It  is  a  well-known  practice  of  the  hypocrite 
to  make  believe  he  is  unusually  candid.  One  of 
the  last  arts  of  an  abandoned  woman  is  to  act 
like  an  innocent  young  girl  again.  It  is  the 
unwilling  tribute  of  the  bad  to  that  simplicity 
of  soul  that  charms  the  world,  but  which  is  lost 
when  the  eye  ceases  to  be  single,  and  when  the 
conscience  ceases  to  be  true. 

Now  the  most  casual  student  of  the  life  of 
Jesus  must  have  noted  the  simplicity  of  Christ. 
In  a  sense  far  deeper  than  any  other  captain,  our 
Lord  is  in  His  simplicity  sublime.  His  name 
shall  be  called  Wonderful,  it  is  quite  true.  He 
was  the  Counsellor,  the  everlasting  King.  But 
He  was  holy,  harmless,  undefiled  ;  and  a  little 
child  shall  lead  them,  said  the  prophet. 

Think  of  His  mode  of  life  :  was  it  not  simple  .^^ 
It  puts  our  artificial  lives  to  shame.     There  is  a 


128         A  PLEA  FOR  SIMPLICITY 

music  in  it,  not  like  the  music  of  the  orchestra, 
but  like  the  music  of  the  brook  under  the  trees. 
He  loved  John  and  Peter,  not  the  Pharisee  ;  and 
He  drew  to  the  children,  not  to  the  scribe  ;  and 
it  was  all  so  natural  and  simple,  that  the  blind 
Jews  said,  this  is  not  the  Christ.  Had  He  come 
greatly,  with  some  sound  of  trumpet,  they  would 
have  hailed  Him  and  cried.  Behold  !  Messiah 
Cometh.  But  they  missed  the  divinity  of  what 
was  simple,  and  He  came  unto  His  own  and 
they  received  Him  not. 

Think  of  His  teaching  :  was  not  that  simple 
too  ?  It  puts  our  sermons  and  our  books  to 
shame.  There  is  a  false  simplicity  that  springs 
from  lack  of  thought — and  there  is  a  spurious 
and  forced  simplicity  that  I  have  heard  some 
ministers  adopt  when  they  began,  with  a  smile, 
to  preach  to  the  children — and  how  the  children 
hate  it  !  But  true  simplicity  is  the  first-born 
child  of  earnestness  ;  and  of  a  deep  and  certain 
knowledge  of  the  theme  ;  and  it  was  that,  irra- 
diated with  divine  compassion,  which  inspired  the 
simplicity  of  Christ  the  teacher.  Some  cynic  once 
said  a  very  bitter  thing  about  the  style  of  Gibbon 
the  historian.     He  said  that  the  style  of  Gibbon 


A  PLEA  FOR  SIMPLICITY         129 

was  a  style  in  which  it  was  impossible  to  tell  the 
truth.  With  the  deepest  reverence  for  our 
ascended  Lord,  I  should  venture  to  say  just  the 
opposite  of  Him — the  style  of  Jesus  the  Teacher 
was  a  style  in  which  it  was  impossible  to  tell  a  lie. 
It  was  so  clear,  so  pure,  so  exquisitely  truthful. 
It  was  so  urgent  in  its  invitation.  It  was  so 
sharp  and  straight  in  its  rebuke.  It  rang  so  true 
to  their  own  village  accent,  and  was  so  fragrant 
with  the  sweet  scent  of  their  own  hills,  that  men 
did  not  realise  in  that  simplicity  the  wisdom  and 
power  of  the  Eternal  God. 

But  the  simplicity  of  Christ  comes  to  its  crown 
in  the  feast  of  the  Lord's  Supper.  There  is  no 
gorgeous  rite  or  showy  ceremonial.  There  is 
nothing  of  that  many-coloured  pageantry  that 
had  once  been  needful  to  attract  the  world. 
A  cup  of  wine  and  a  piece  of  broken  bread — 
these  are  the  seals  and  symbols  of  the  gospel. 
And  I  never  feel  the  simplicity  of  God  and  of 
God's  great  plan  for  rescuing  the  world — I  never 
feel  it  so  powerfully  and  so  freshly  as  when  I 
sit  at  the  Communion  Table.  There  are  great 
mysteries  in  our  Redemption.  There  are  deep 
things  that  even  the  angels  cannot  fathom.      But 

I 


I30        A  PLEA  FOR  SIMPLICITY 

in  the  centre  Is  a  fact  so  simple  that  its  best  ritual 
is  bread  and  wine. 

Indeed  that  very  simplicity,  I  take  it,  is  part  of 
the  offence  of  the  Cross.  For  such  a  complicated 
curse  as  self  we  should  dearly  love  a  complicated 
cure.  We  are  like  Naaman,  the  leprous  captain 
of  Assyria,  who  came  to  Israel  to  be  cured  of 
leprosy.  And  Naaman  was  mightily  vexed  and 
indignant  when  he  was  told  to  wash  in  Jordan 
seven  times.  I  recall  how  M'Crie  in  his  great 
Life  of  Knox — and  a  recent  historian  has  said 
about  that  book  that  the  man  who  has  studied  the 
period  most  deeply  will  feel  most  deeply  how 
much  he  owes  to  it — well,  M'Crie  in  his  Life  of 
Knox  mentions  among  the  things  that  hindered 
the  progress  of  the  Reformation,  the  great  sim- 
plicity of  the  pure  gospel.  There  was  something 
fascinating  to  the  youthful  mind  in  the  intricate 
subtleties  of  mediaeval  logic.  There  was  a  certain 
appeal  for  them  in  that  vast  rambling  structure, 
that  had  been  built  by  the  schoolmen  and  called 
theology.  And  when  the  evangel  came  with  its 
glad  news  of  pardon,  and  out  of  the  mists  and 
chaos  of  the  ages  stept  Jesus  with  the  dew  of  His 
youth  still  on  His  brow,  it  was  ail  so  simple  that 


A  PLEA  FOR  SIMPLICITY         131 

they  took  offence.  O  friend,  do  not  thou  take 
offence  !  Remember  that  ours  is  a  universal 
gospel.  It  has  been  preached  this  summer 
Sunday  by  the  grave  of  Livingstone.  It  has 
been  sung  in  the  villages  of  India.  It  has  been 
spoken  beside  the  Tigris  and  Euphrates.  It  was 
declared  to-day  in  the  Pacific  Islands.  It  has 
cheered  the  sick,  it  has  comforted  the  dying,  it 
has  done  that,  and  a  thousand  times  more,  this 
summer  day — and  you  do  not  want  an  intricate 
gospel  to  do  that.  I  have  a  Saviour  who  looked 
on  life  as  life  ;  and  never  thought  of  it  as  some 
quiet  academy.  I  have  a  gospel  that  in  its  great 
simplicity  is  level  with  the  strain  of  life  and 
death.  It  is  worth  preaching.  It  is  worth  be- 
lieving. An  intricate  faith  in  such  a  world  is 
self-condemned.  The  Cross  is,  as  the  greatest 
only  are,  in  its  simplicity  sublime. 

I  want  you  all  then  to  feel  again,  still  more  I 
want  you  all  to  practise,  the  true  simplicity  that 
is  in  Jesus  Christ.  And  what  we  need  is  a  little 
more  faith  in  God  ;  a  little  more  independence 
of  the  world  ;  a  little  more  trust  in  an  indwelling 
Holy  Ghost,  and  the  separate  guidance  He  is 
giving  to  each.     One  of  the  foremost  of  our  living 


1^2        A  PLEA  FOR  SIMPLICITY 

critics  says  a  beautiful  thing  about  the  songs  of 
Shakespeare — the  songs  that  we  find  scattered 
through  his  plays.  He  says  that  the  songs  of 
Shakespeare  are  the  only  perfectly  simple  songs 
in  English,  and  they  are  that  because  of  Shake- 
speare's faith.  Other  men  halted,  hesitated,  and 
were  afraid.  They  said,  *  That  will  look  foolish, 
and  what  will  men  think  of  this  ? '  until  the  touch 
of  simplicity  was  gone.  But  Shakespeare,  think- 
ing of  no  man,  sang  like  a  bird  ;  trusted  his 
genius,  and  was  very  simple.  And  so  I  want 
you  to  trust  your  God.  And  if  we  hold  to 
it,  quietly,  without  fret,  that  it  is  always  better 
to  be  good  than  bad,  that  it  is  always  better 
to  be  pure  than  impure,  that  duty  is  duty, 
that  conscience  is  supreme,  that  God  is  living, 
that  Jesus  died  for  us  ;  then,  spite  of  all  the 
genius  of  Shakespeare,  our  song,  our  life-lilt,  our 
music  of  the  soul,  may  come  to  be  just  as  simple 
as  was  his. 


*  AFTER  THAT,  THE  DARK' 

He  knoweth  what  is  in  the  darkness. — Dan,  ii.  22. 

These  words  occur  in  a  prayer  of  thanksgiving 
uttered  by  Daniel,  and  we  must  remember  the 
strange  circumstances  that  had  moved  the  prophet 
to  this  prayer.  Nebuchadnezzar  had  dreamed  a 
dream  :  it  had  troubled  his  spirit  till  he  started 
up,  awake.  In  the  language  of  Scripture,  his  sleep 
brake  from  him  '  even  as  a  bird  out  of  the  fowler's 
snare.'  But  when  the  king  woke  his  dream  had 
vanished  from  him.  He  could  not  recall  it;  it 
was  quite  gone  from  memory.  There  only 
remained  the  haunting  consciousness  that  some- 
thing portentous  had  loomed  up  in  sleep.  So  the 
king  called  for  the  magicians  of  his  court.  They 
must  tell  him  his  dream ;  they  must  find  out 
what  he  dreamed  of ;  they  must  declare  not  only 
the  interpretation,  but  the  matter  and  substance 
of  the  vision  as  well.  It  is  little  wonder  the 
Chaldeans  answered,  '  There  is  not  a  man  on 
earth   that   can  show  the  king's   matter.'     Then 

188 


134      *  AFTER  THAT,  THE  DARK' 

Daniel  heard  the  command  of  Nebuchadnezzar. 
And  he  went  apart  with  his  three  friends,  and  they 
prayed  about  it.  He  pled  with  God  to  tell  him 
what  the  dream  was,  and  God  was  graciously 
pleased  to  hear  His  child.  Then  was  the  secret 
revealed  to  Daniel  in  a  night-vision,  and  Daniel 
blessed  the  God  of  heaven.  Blessed  be  the  name 
of  God  for  ever  and  ever,  said  Daniel,  for  wisdom 
and  might  are  His.  He  giveth  wisdom  to  the 
wise,  and  knowledge  to  them  that  know  under- 
standing. He  revealeth  the  deep  and  secret 
things.     He  knoweth  what  is  in  the  darkness. 

Now  when  the  Bible  tells  us  that  God  knows 
a  thing,  we  have  to  widen  the  thought  of  know- 
ledge a  great  deal.  So  much  of  our  knowledge  is 
merely  speculative,  not  vitally  linked  with  life 
and  character,  that  we  are  apt  to  forget  that 
all  God's  thought  and  love  really  lie  latent  in 
what  He  knows.  Sometimes  when  we  have  done 
anything  unworthy  the  vision  of  a  good  woman 
comes  before  us,  and  we  say  in  our  hearts,  or 
perhaps  we  say  to  our  neighbour,  '  I  would  not  for 
worlds  that  she  should  know  it.'  We  mean  that 
there  are  some  men  and  women  whom  we  might 
tell  it  to,  and  the  knowledge  would  make  little 


'AFTER  THAT,  THE  DARK'      135 

difference  to  them.  But  there  is  one  so  sensitive, 
so  true,  so  good,  that  to  know  it  would  wound 
her  to  the  very  heart.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  have 
a  friend  like  that.  Now  something  like  that,  only 
infinitely  higher,  should  be  in  our  minds  when- 
ever we  say  '  God  knows.'  There  is  thought,  love, 
wisdom,  preparation,  action,  in  the  bosom  of  the 
knowledge  of  the  Eternal.  He  knoweth  our 
frame :  that  means  that  He  will  pity  us.  He 
knoweth  the  way  that  I  take :  that  means  that 
He  will  guide  me.  He  knoweth  what  is  in  the 
darkness  :  then  He  will  use  it  for  Daniel,  whom 
He  loves. 

Now  I  want  to  take  this  great  thought  of  our 
text  and  run  it  out  along  three  lines  to-night. 
Firstly,  He  knoweth  what  is  in  the  darkness  of 
the  heart.  Secondly,  He  knoweth  what  is  in  the 
darkness  of  the  lot.  And  thirdly,  He  knoweth 
what  is  in  the  darkness  of  the  future. 

First,  then,  He  knoweth  what  is  in  the  darkness 
of  the  heart. 

There  is  a  well-known  passage  in  that  gentle 
and  wise  book,  'The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table, 
in  which  the  autocrat  startles  the  breakfast-table 


1^6      *  AFTER  THAT,  THE  DARK' 

by  a  remark  on  two  men  in  conversation.  He 
says  that  whenever  two  men  are  engaged  in  con- 
versation, there  are  really  six  men  present  and  not 
two.  There  is  the  man  as  his  friend  pictures  him 
to  be.  There  is  the  man  as  he  pictures  himself 
to  be.  And  thirdly — though  the  writer  puts  it 
first — there  is  the  real  man,  known  only  to  his 
Maker.  The  other  men  in  each  case  are  ideal. 
Self-love  touches  up  the  picture,  or  the  love  of 
friendship  puts  a  halo  round  it.  But  the  man 
as  he  is  in  himself — the  real  man — that  man  is 
known  only  to  his  Maker  :  He  knoweth  what  is 
in  the  darkness. 

And  the  more  we  study  that  strange  problem 
of  self,  the  more  we  feel  that  Dr.  Holmes  is 
right.  In  the  most  ordinary  life  are  deeps  you 
cannot  fathom.  In  your  own  heart  is  a  darkness 
that  you  never  penetrated.  If  we  could  only  see 
into  the  gloom  as  God  sees,  we  should  not  surprise 
each  other  as  we  do.  Who  knows  what  dreams 
are  thronging  in  the  brain  when  the  fingers  are 
busy  with  the  daily  work  ^  Who  knows  what 
unrest,  dissatisfaction,  craving  are  cloaked  and 
masked  by  that  sweet  face  ?  Who  knows  what 
suggestions  of  evil  may  have  risen  even  in  this 


WYFTER  THAT,  THE  DARK'      137 

sanctuary  where  God  is  present  to-night  ?  We 
are  all  far  more  mysterious  than  we  know.  The 
roots  of  our  best  and  our  worst  are  in  the  dark- 
ness. It  is  that  that  makes  a  man  lean  hard  on 
God,  and  say  He  knows  what  is  in  the  darkness. 
In  that  vast  world  which  is  beneath  our  conscious- 
ness, where  life  has  its  spring  and  the  desires  are 
born,  where  far  beneath  our  touch  or  sight  are  the 
primary  impulses  that  shall  determine  everything, 
it  is  there  that  prayer  and  faith  and  trust  work 
miracles,  for  they  are  our  appeal  to  the  only 
Being  in  the  universe  who  knoweth  what  is  in  the 
dark. 

Now  no  man  can  doubt  God's  knowledge  of 
that  realm,  who  will  seriously  read  the  life  of 
Jesus  Christ.  Few  things  arrest  us  more  in  that 
high  story  than  how  Jesus  explained  men  and 
women  to  themselves.  I  don't  think  you  and  I 
would  have  given  our  best  to  that  poor  and  half- 
wrecked  woman  of  Samaria.  I  don't  think  you 
and  I  would  ever  have  dreamed  of  finding  a 
magnificent  apostle  in  Simon  Peter.  But  Jesus 
Christ  knew  what  was  in  the  darkness,  and  twenty 
centuries  have  justified  His  choice.  Why,  too, 
when  they  asked  Him  one  thing,  would  He  some- 


138      'AFTER  THAT,  THE  DARK' 

times  answer  as  it  were  another  thing  ?  Why  did 
He  say  about  Herod,  *  Go  tell  that  fox';  or  to 
the  crowd  that  was  gathered  round  the  woman, 
'  Let  him  that  is  without  sin  throw  the  first  stone 
at  her  '  ?  It  was  Christ  finding  His  way  into  the 
gloom.  It  was  the  Son  of  God  touching  the 
secret  soul.  It  was  the  witness  and  proof,  upon 
the  stage  of  history,  that  He  knoweth  what  is  in 
the  darkness  of  the  heart. 

This  thought  has  a  twofold  bearing  upon 
practice.  It  is,  first,  a  great  comfort  when  we 
are  misunderstood.  I  am  not  speaking  so  much 
of  great  misunderstandings ;  it  is  a  man's  duty  to 
get  these  explained  at  once.  Lives  have  been 
ruined  through  great  misunderstandings,  hearts 
have  been  made  unutterably  miserable,  when  half 
an  hour,  face  to  face  and  eye  to  eye — and  the 
birds  would  have  been  singing  in  the  trees  again. 
But  apart  from  these  there  are  the  lesser  misunder- 
standings, that  fret  a  man's  spirit  every  day  he 
lives.  The  things  we  try  to  do,  and  do  so  badly  ; 
the  kindnesses  we  mismanage  so  wofully ;  the 
words  we  would  fain  speak  and  sometimes  cannot. 
The  fact  is  that  all  expression  is  clumsy ;  we 
cannot  adjust   it  to   the  spiritual  movement  ;  we 


'AFTER  THAT,  THE  DARK'      139 

grope  and  stumble  to  explain  ourselves,  and  per- 
haps we  are  never  really  understood.  And  it  is 
then  that,  with  a  sense  of  restful  comfort,  we 
remember  He  knoweth  what  is  in  the  dark- 
ness. Do  you  recall  how  Dr.  Newman  put  that 
thought  ? 

*  Time  was  I  shrank  from  what  was  right 
From  fear  of  what  was  wrong. 
I  would  not  brave  the  sacred  fight 
Because  the  foe  was  strong. 

But  now  I  cast  that  finer  sense 

And  sorer  shame  aside. 
Such  dread  of  sin  was  indolence, 

Such  aim  at  heaven  was  pride. 

So  when  my  Saviour  calls,  I  rise 

And  calmly  do  my  best, 
Leaving  to  Him  with  silent  eyes 

Of  hope  and  fear,  the  rest. 

I  step,  I  mount  where  He  has  led. 

Men  count  my  haltings  o'er. 
I  know  them  ;  yet  tho'  self  1  dread, 

I  love  His  precept  more.' 

But  the  thought  is  more  than  a  comfort  when 
we  are  misunderstood.  It  is  a  caution  against 
judging  others.  I  think  we  would  be  very  loth 
to  judge  a  man  if  we  only  remembered  that 
doctrine  of  the   text.      Tennyson   makes    Merlin 


HO      'AFTER  THAT,  THE  DARK' 

speak  '  of  that  foul  bird  of  rapine  whose  whole 
prey  is  man's  good  name/  and  nothing  is  more 
amazing  than  the  recklessness  with  which  we  pass 
judgment  upon  a  brother's  action.  I  want  you  to 
remember  that  behind  every  action  there  is  a 
darkness  into  which  no  one  sees  but  God.  I 
want  you  to  remember  that  for  the  simplest  deed, 
motives  are  intricate,  involved,  entangled.  I  want 
you  lo  feel  that  unless  you  unravel  motive,  the 
judgment  is  bound  to  be  inadequate.  It  is 
always  wiser,  and  it  is  always  kinder,  to  regard 
judgment  as  the  prerogative  of  Heaven.  Judge 
not  that  ye  be  not  judged.  You  do  not  know — 
He  knows — what  is  in  the  darkness  of  the  heart. 

Secondly  :  He  knoweth  what  is  in  the  darkness 
of  the  lot. 

There  are  two  words  that  sum  up  the  trials  of 
human  life.  The  one  is  shadow  and  the  other  is 
cross.  The  one  suggests  the  thought  of  darkness ; 
the  other  hints  at  the  burdens  we  must  bear.  I 
sometimes  think  we  should  handle  our  lives  better 
if  we  learned  to  distinguish  the  shadow  from  the 
cross.  Christ  says  to  every  disciple,  *  Take  up 
thy   cross  ';  but  no  man  would  dream  of  taking 


'AFTER  THAT,  THE  DARK'      141 

up  a  shadow.  We  walk  into  it  as  bravely  as  we 
may,  and  by  and  by  we  shall  reach  the  other 
border.  We  are  prone  to  say,  '  What  a  dark 
shadow  this  is,'  when  it  is  really  a  cross  given 
us  by  God  to  carry.  And  sometimes  we  say, 
*  This  is  a  heavy  cross,'  when  it  is  only  a  shadow 
we  shall  leave  to-morrow  morning.  Learn  to 
distinguish,  to  separate  a  little.  *  Divide  and 
conquer '  holds  in  the  spirit  world.  The  dark- 
ness of  life  is  dark  enough,  God  knows,  without 
the  added  darkness  of  confusion. 

Now  if  there  is  one  thing  on  earth  that  is  hard 
to  understand,  it  is  the  meaning  and  the  content 
of  life's  darkness.  It  has  been  the  stumbling- 
block  to  countless  feet ;  it  has  tried  the  faith  of 
innumerable  hearts.  The  world  has  been  asking 
what  is  the  meaning  of  pain,  and  what  is  the 
meaning  of  trial  and  of  tragedy,  ever  since  man 
began  to  ask  at  all ;  but  when  trial  and  sorrow 
knock  at  your  own  door,  the  answers  of  all  the 
ages  shall  not  satisfy.  There  is  an  element  of 
surprise  in  all  affliction.  There  is  something 
different  from  all  we  ever  heard  of.  If  every  joy 
is  different  from  every  other  joy,  every  separate 
sorrow  is  a   new  thing  too.      Darkness  may  have 


142      *  AFTER  THAT,  THE  DARK' 

enwrapped  ten  thousand  hearts,  but  in  our  dark- 
ness somehow  we  stand  alone.  And  then  we 
crave  to  understand  the  thing.  We  do  not  want 
sympathy,  so  much  as  explanation.  We  want  to 
know  the  content  of  that  darkness,  and  we  come 
home  from  the  world  saying,  *  The  world  does  not 
know.'  And  it  is  then,  finding  that  flesh  is  vain, 
and  turning  full-faced  to  the  Eternal  God,  we 
hear  the  exquisite  music  of  our  text,  '  He  knoweth 
what  is  in  the  darkness.*  He  knoweth,  and  His 
name  is  Love.  He  knoweth,  and  He  so  loved 
the  world  that  He  gave  His  only  begotten  Son 
to  die  for  us.  He  knoweth,  and  we  are  His 
ignorant  children,  but  by  and  by  we  shall  know 
as  we  are  known.  There  is  a  Christian  agnos- 
ticism and  a  Christian  stoicism  that  find  their 
charter  in  this  noble  text.  Until  the  day  break, 
and  the  shadows  flee  away,  it  is  enough  that  He 
knoweth  what  is  in  the  darkness. 

And  is  not  all  that  exemplified  most  powerfully 
in  the  sufferings  of  our  Saviour  Jesus  Christ  ^  I 
think  that  Jesus  in  His  agony  in  the  Garden  is 
the  loneliest  figure  in  all  history.  Peter  and 
James  were  there,  and  John  was  there ;  and 
Peter  and  James  and  John  loved  Jesus  fervently. 


*  AFTER  THAT,  THE  DARK'      143 

But  they  all  slept,  they  could  not  watch  one  hour; 
they  never  guessed  what  was  in  the  darkness.  And 
the  other  nine  knew  nothing  of  it  all,  and  the 
children  in  every  cottage  were  asleep.  None 
knew  but  God,  the  Eternal  God  in  glory,  stooping 
in  infinite  pity  to  the  earth— none  but  the  Father 
knew  what  was  in  the  darkness  when  the  bloody 
sweat  dropped,  and  the  hands  were  pierced.  All 
Christendom  knows  now ;  for  it  has  saved  us. 
That  blood  speaks  better  things  than  that  of  Abel. 
In  the  darkness  of  Christ's  lot  there  was  untold 
treasure.  Who  knows  how  it  shall  be  with  you 
and  me? 

Thirdly,  and  lastly :  He  knoweth  what  is  in  the 
darkness  of  the  future. 

I  think  we  are  all  agreed  that  it  is  a  very 
merciful  provision  that  God  has  hidden  the 
to-morrow  from  us.  I  think  we  all  feel  that  it 
is  infinite  kindness  that  has  hung  that  veil  over  the 
coming  days.  Did  you  ever  think  how  life's 
novelty  would  go,  and  how  the  zest  and  charm  of 
it  would  pass,  if  we  could  see  every  to-morrow 
perfectly  ?  Even  in  the  best  company  a  road 
grows  weary,    when   we   see  the  levels   for   long 


144      *  AFTER  THAT,  THE  DARK' 

miles  ahead.  I  fancy,  too,  there  have  been  hours 
for  most  of  us  of  such  unutterable  strain  and 
agony,  that  had  we  foreseen  them  ten  years  before, 
we  should  have  given  up  life's  battle  altogether. 
I  do  not  wonder  that  the  great  prophets  of  Israel 
were  men  bowed  under  a  certain  noble  melan- 
choly. The  bravest  hearts  could  not  escape  that 
shadow,  if  God  revealed  to  them  things  of  the 
future.  And  who  can  tell  how  the  sufferings  of 
Christ  were  deepened — touched  to  an  intensity  we 
cannot  conceive — by  His  knowledge  of  the  cross 
that  was  in  store  ! 

Of  course,  to  a  certain  limited  extent,  we  do  see 
into  the  darkness  of  to-morrow.  We  live  in  a 
world  of  most  inflexible  law,  and  as  a  man  soweth 
so  also  shall  he  reap.  They  say  that  in  the  con- 
volutions of  the  acorn  the  microscope  sees  all  the 
promise  of  the  oak  ;  and  in  the  bosom  of  a  man's 
to-day^  with  its  struggle  and  conquest,  or  idleness 
and  waste,  it  takes  no  prophet  to  discern  to- 
morrow. The  pity  of  the  ill-regulated  hour  is 
that  the  hours  yet  to  strike  shall  feel  its  pressure. 
The  joy  of  an  earnest  morning  is  just  this,  that  it 
shall  be  easier  to  be  earnest  when  a  new  morning 
dawns.     If  we   could   separate   life  into   isolated 


*  AFTER  THAT,  THE  DARK*      145 

seasons,  the  task  of  living  would  be  infinitely 
simpler.  It  is  the  fact  that  every  hour  Hves  on, 
to  influence  every  other  hour,  that  makes  the  joys 
of  life  so  stern  and  glorious,  and  the  failures  of 
life  so  exquisitely  sad.  To  a  certain  extent,  then, 
and  in  the  moral  sphere,  each  of  us  does  see  what 
is  in  the  darkness.  We  are  fellow-workers  with 
God,  and  share  His  vision. 

But  after  all  it  is  a  limited  vision.  It  is  only 
one  little  corner  of  the  veil  that  is  removed. 
The  fact  remains  that  in  His  infinite  pity  we  are 
shielded  and  safeguarded  by  our  ignorance ;  and 
the  quiet  thinker  will  waken  every  morning  saying 
to  his  own  heart,  '  God  knows.'  It  is  one  great 
secret  of  a  well-spent  life  to  live  not  by  the  year 
or  by  the  month,  but  by  the  day.  And  the  secret 
of  that  secret  is  to  trust  that  God,  who  is  Love, 
knows  what  is  in  the  darkness.  Is  there  a  father 
here  anxious  about  his  son  }  Is  there  a  mother 
who  cannot  bend  over  her  little  children  but  the 
thought  of  coming  years  hurts  like  a  pain  }  Am 
I  speaking  to  any  man  this  evening,  present  per- 
haps for  the  first  time  in  this  church,  who  would 
give  himself  to  God  wholeheartedly  but  for  the 
haunting  dread  of  after  days  }     Is  there  any  one 

K 


146      'AFTER  THAT,  THE  DARK* 

nerveless  and  worried  so  that  he  cannot  worship, 
cannot  be  happy  at  home,  perhaps  cannot  sleep  ? 
My  brother  or  sister,  '  God  is  love,  and  He 
knoweth  what  is  in  the  darkness.'  The  secret  of 
strength  and  quietness  is  there. 


COUNTING  THE  COST 

For  which  of  you,  intending  to  build  a  tower,  sitteth  not 
down  first  and  counteth  the  cost,  whether  he  have  sufficient  to 
finish  it  ? 

Lest  haply,  after  he  hath  laid  the  foundation,  and  is  not  able  to 
finish  it,  all  that  behold  it  begin  to  mock  him, 

Saying,  This  man  began  to  build,  and  was  not  able  to  finish. 

Or  what  king,  going  to  make  war  against  another  king,  sitteth 
not  down  first,  and  consulteth,  whether  he  be  able  with  ten  thousand 
to  meet  him  that  cometh  against  him  with  twenty  thousand  ? 

Luke  xiv.  28-31. 

It  is  notable  that  in  these  two  little  parables, 
which  deal  with  the  great  endeavours  of  the 
human  soul,  our  Lord  brings  in  the  figure  of 
the  builder,  and  of  a  king  making  war  upon 
another  king.  Christ  always  took  human  life  at 
its  best  and  kingliest,  and  even  his  illustrations* 
have  a  royal  touch.  But  the  point  to  note  is 
that  Christ  compared  life  to  building.  Life  was 
like  architecture  or  like  war.  Building  and 
battling — these  are  the  Master's  figures  ;  and  I 
do  not  think  the  world  has  ever  bettered  them. 

U7 


148  COUNTING  THE  COST 

There  are  rare  souls  that  seem  to  grow,  not 
build.  And  it  may  be  some  of  us  have  known 
one  saint — our  mother  perhaps — who  bore  no 
marks  of  conflict  anywhere,  and  seemed  to  have 
reached  the  highest  without  a  struggle.  But  for 
most  of  us  it  is  the  other  way.  Effort  on  effort, 
failure  after  failure,  we  have  to  forge  and  hammer 
ourselves  towards  what  is  honourable.  And  there 
are  days  when  we  seem  to  be  building  up  a 
prison-house,  until  God  in  His  mercy  shatters 
that  to  fragments.  Just  note,  then,  that  it  is  in 
a  little  parable  of  building  that  our  Saviour 
teaches  us  to  count  the  cost. 

Now,  any  one  who  has  read  much  in  religious 
literature  must  have  been  struck  by  a  kind  of 
contradiction  in  it.  He  must  have  been  arrested 
by  two  opposite  conceptions  of  what  religion  really 
demands.  I  read  some  sermons,  or  I  listen  to 
some  preaching,  and  religion  seems  exquisitely 
sweet  and  easy.  I  thought  there  was  a  cross  in 
our  religion,  but  when  I  read  some  of  our 
current  literature — if  there  be  a  cross  it  is  so 
wreathed  with  honeysuckle  that  a  poor  soul  can 
stumble  past  it  easily.  The  valley  of  the  shadow 
seems  to  have  grown  antiquated ;  we  are  to  walk 


COUNTING  THE  COST  149 

on  the  delectable  mountains  all  the  way.  Mark 
you,  we  never  can  insist  enough  on  the  true  joy  of 
the  religious  life.  We  never  can  forget  that  to  the 
heavy-laden,  Christ  said,  and  says  for  ever,  '  My 
yoke  is  easy.'  But  that  is  so  interpreted  some- 
times, and  the  harder  and  sterner  sayings  are 
so  evaded,  that  religion  seems  to  walk  in  silver 
slippers. 

But  when  I  turn  to  another  class  of  teachers — 
and  some  of  the  greatest  of  every  age  are  in  it — 
what  impresses  me  is  not  the  ease  of  things,  but 
the  depth  and  difficulty  of  religion.  The  gate 
is  narrow  ;  the  way  is  strait  and  mountainous  ; 
the  cross  is  heavy,  and  the  flesh  cries  out  against 
it.  Let  every  student  read  Dr.  Newman's 
sermons  if  he  would  see  that  view  of  the  religious 
life  expressed  in  matchless  English.  That,  then, 
is  the  seeming  contradiction.  These  are  the 
two  opposite  conceptions.  The  one  says,  '  If  I 
come  to  Jesus,  happy  shall  I  be.'  The  other 
says,  '  If  I  find  Him,  if  I  follow,  what  His 
guerdon  here  ?  Many  a  sorrow,  many  a  labour, 
many  a  tear.' 

Well,  in  our  text  there  can  be  little  question 
that  our  Lord  leans  to  the  latter  of  these  views. 


I50  COUNTING  THE  COST 

It  is  a  great  thing  to  be  an  earnest  Christian,  it  is 
a  high  calling  to  be  a  knight  of  that  round  table ; 
let  a  man,  says  Jesus,  deliberately  sit  down  and 
count  the  cost,  lest  the  fair  fame  of  it  be 
smirched  and  sullied  by  him.  Nothing  impresses 
us  more  in  Jesus  Christ  than  His  insistence  on 
quality,  not  quantity.  He  never  hesitated  to  set 
the  standard  high,  even  though  men  should  be 
offended  at  Him.  It  is  better  to  be  served  by 
twenty  loyal  hearts,  than  by  half  a  hundred 
undisciplined  adventurers.  Think  it  all  out, 
says  Christ.  Sit  down,  count  up  the  cost,  find 
what  it  comes  to.  Rash  promising  is  certain  to 
make  shipwreck.  I  want  you  to  be  still,  and 
know  that  I  am  God. 

Now  I  think  it  immensely  increases  our 
reverence  for  Jesus  to  find  Him  dealing  thus 
with  human  souls.  He  never  veils  the  hardship 
of  His  calHng,  He  is  so  absolutely  certain  of  its 
glory.  When  Drake  and  the  gallant  captains  of 
Queen  Elizabeth's  time  went  out  into  the  streets 
of  Plymouth  to  get  sailors,  they  told  them  quite 
frankly  of  the  storms  of  the  Pacific,  and  of  the 
reefs  in  it,  and  of  the  fevers  of  Panama.  They 
honoured    their   brave   Devonshire   comrades   far 


COUNTING  THE  COST 


15 


too  much  to  get  them  to  sign  on  under  any  false 
pretences.  But  then  there  was  the  Spanish  gold 
and  treasure,  and  the  glory  of  it,  and  all  England 
to  ring  with  it.  And  the  men  counted  the  cost 
and  signed  for  that  daring  service,  in  the  spacious 
times  of  great  Elizabeth.  And  I  honour  our 
Captain  for  dealing  with  men  like  that — the 
press-gang  is  an  un-Christlike  instrument.  Christ 
says  :  You  are  a  free  man ;  count  the  cost. 
Life  is  before  you  :  choose  whom  you  will 
serve.  I  offer  you  a  cross,  also  a  crown.  I 
offer  you  struggle,  but  there  shall  be  victory. 
You  shall  be  lonely,  yet  lo,  I  am  with  you 
always.  You  shall  be  restless,  yet  I  will  give 
you  rest.  Was  there  ever  a  leader  so  frank, 
so  open,  so  brave,  as  the  Master  who  is  claim- 
ing you  to-night  ? 

And  it  is  just  here  that  the  service  of  our 
Lord  stands  at  opposite  poles  from  the  service 
of  sin.  For  the  one  thing  that  sin  can  never  do 
is  to  say  to  a  man,  '  Sit  down  and  count  the  cost 
of  it.'  Do  you  think  that  to-night's  drunkard 
ever  counted  the  cost  when  men  called  him  such 
splendid  company  twenty  years  ago?  Do  you 
think  that  the  man  who  has  tried  for,  and  missed. 


152 


COUNTING  THE  COST 


life's  prizes  counted  the  cost  when  he  was  sowing 
his  wild  oats  ?  Sin  is  too  subtle,  too  sweet,  too 
masterfully  urgent,  to  give  a  man  time  for  that 
arithmetic.  *  Evil  is  wrought  by  want  of  thought, 
as  well  as  want  of  heart.'  If  that  young  student 
who  has  come  up  for  the  Winter  Session,  and 
who  has  dropped  in  here,  will  only  deliberately 
count  the  cost  this  evening  ;  if  he  will  only 
remember  he  is  in  the  grip  of  law  that  no 
repentance  ever  can  annul ;  if  he  will  think  that 
as  he  sows  this  winter,  so  every  coming  winter 
will  he  reap,  I  think  he  will  shake  himself  and 
say,  *  Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan.'  It  is  true  that 
you  cannot  put  old  heads  upon  young  shoulders. 
But  don't  we  begin  counting  when  we  are  little 
children  ?  And  half  the  battle  of  a  man's  life  is 
won  when  he  sits  down  and  counts  the  cost. 
Sin  will  keep  a  man  from  that,  by  hook  or 
crook.  But  '  come  and  let  us  reason  together,' 
saith  the  Lord. 

Of  course  we  must  distinguish  this  wise  delibera- 
tion from  a  merely  calculating  and  cowardly 
prudence.  It  is  often  the  man  who  has  counted 
the  cost  most  earnestly,  who  shows  a  kind  of 
splendid  imprudence  to  the  world.      I  mean  that 


COUNTING  THE  COST  153 

what  the  world  calls  prudence  is  very  often  a 
somewhat  shallow  thing.  It  does  not  run  its 
roots  into  the  deeps  ;  it  is  really  a  kindlier  name 
for  selfishness.  And  the  man  who  has  dwelt 
alone  with  the  great  things,  and  who  has  been 
touched  by  the  hand  of  the  Eternal,  is  not  likely 
in  that  sense  to  be  worldly  wise.  I  dare  say 
that  everybody  thought  John  Knox  imprudent 
when  he  insisted  on  preaching  in  St.  Andrews, 
though  the  Archbishop  had  warned  him  he 
would  slay  him.  I  dare  say  everybody  thought 
Martin  Luther  imprudent,  when  he  said  he 
would  go  to  the  Diet  though  every  tile  on  the 
housetops  were  a  devil.  But  Knox  and  Luther 
had  been  alone  with  God ;  it  was  deliberate 
action,  and  not  reckless  folly.  They  had  counted 
the  cost  for  Scotland  and  for  Christendom. 

The  fact  is,  that  in  all  the  highest  courage 
there  is  the  element  of  quiet  calculation.  The 
truest  heroism  always  counts  the  cost.  The 
bravery  of  passion  is  not  a  shining  virtue. 
I  think  that  a  very  ordinary  man  could  storm 
a  rampart,  if  he  were  a  soldier.  They  tell  us 
there  is  a  wild  forgetfulness  of  self  in  that  last 
rush    that   would   fire   the    blood    and    thrill    the 


154  COUNTING  THE  COST 

most  timid.  The  test  of  courage  is  the  long  night 
march,  under  the  fire  of  invisible  guns  ;  it  is 
the  sentry  duty  in  the  darkness,  when  the 
shadows  and  silence  might  shatter  the  strongest 
nerve :  I  think  that  the  man  who  deliberately 
faces  that,  who  goes  through  it  quietly  because 
it  is  his  duty,  is  just  as  worthy  of  the  Victoria 
Cross  as  the  man  who  has  won  it  in  some  more 
splendid  moment.  No  man,  said  one  of  Oliver 
Cromwell,  no  man  was  a  better  judge  than 
Oliver  of  what  might  be  achieved  by  daring. 
Yet  the  true  heroism  of  that  noble  soul  was  not 
the  heroism  of  the  rash  adventurer.  He  never 
let  texts  do  duty  for  tactics,  says  Mr.  Morley. 
I  always  admired  the  answer  of  that  man  who 
was  going  forward  with  a  comrade  to  some 
dungerous  duty.  And  his  comrade  looked  at 
him,  and  saw  that  his  cheek  was  blanched.  And 
he  laughed  and  said,  '  I  believe  you  are  afraid.' 
And  the  other,  looking  straight  forward,  said, 
*  Yes,  I  am  afraid,  and  if  you  were  half  as  afraid 
as  I  am,  you  would  go  home.'  Do  not  forget, 
then,  that  when  Jesus  says,  '  Count  the  cost,'  He 
is  really  sounding  the  note  of  the  heroic.  He 
does     not    want    any    one    on     false     pretences 


COUNTING  THE  COST  155 

He  will  not  issue  any  lying  prospectus.  He  comes 
to  vou  and  says,  You  are  a  thinking  man,  with 
powers  that  it  will  take  eternity  to  ripen.  Look 
life  in  the  face.  Look  death  in  the  face.  Sum 
it  all  up,  measure  the  value  of  things.  And  if 
you  do  that  quietly  and  earnestly,  with  sincere 
prayer  to  God  to  enlighten  you,  My  claims,  Christ 
means,  shall  so  tower  above  all  others,  that  I 
shall  have  your  heart  and  your  service  from  that 
hour. 

I  have  been  struck,  too,  in  studying  the 
Scriptures,  to  note  how  the  great  men  there 
learned  to  count  the  cost.  They  were  not  sud- 
denly dragged  into  the  service.  There  was  no 
unthinking  and  unreasoning  excitement.  God 
gave  to  every  one  of  them  a  time  of  silence 
before  their  high  endeavour.  It  was  as  if  He 
laid  His  hand  upon  them  and  said,  '  My  child, 
go  apart  for  a  little,  and  count  the  cost.'  Moses 
was  forty  days  alone  with  God.  Elijah  was  in 
the  wilderness  alone.  Paul,  touched  by  the  finger 
of  the  Lord  whom  he  had  persecuted,  took 
counsel  of  no  flesh,  but  departed  into  the  loneli- 
ness of  Arabia.  Moses,  Elijah,  Paul — yes,  even 
Simon    Peter    going    out    into    the    night — were 


156  COUNTING  THE  COST 

learning  the  deep  lesson  of  our  parable.  And 
whenever  I  read  of  the  temptations  of  Jesus,  and 
of  how  the  Spirit  of  God  drove  Him  apart, 
and  how  Satan  came  and  showed  Him  all  the 
kingdoms,  and  taught  Him  a  less  costly  way 
to  sovereignty  than  by  the  sweat  of  Gethsemane 
and  the  water  and  blood  of  Calvary — whenever 
I  read  that  and  recall  how  He  stood  fast,  I  feel 
that  our  Saviour  had  counted  the  cost  Himself. 
We  shall  never  understand  the  calm  persistence 
of  the  glorious  company  of  martyrs  and  of  saints 
till  we  go  back  to  that  quiet  hour  at  the  beginning 
when  they  faced  every  difficulty,  weighed  every 
cross,  forecast  the  future,  looked  at  life  whole, 
and  then,  having  counted  the  cost  like  reason- 
able men,  took  up  their  stand  upon  the  side 
of  God.  A  blind  acceptance  may  be  justifiable 
sometimes.  But  the  great  hearts  were  never 
led  that  way. 

Now  I  want  you  to  join  that  reasonable 
company.  I  do  not  know  that  that  is  popular 
doctrine,  but  I  want  to  get  the  young  men  back 
to  the  Church  of  Christ  again,  and  I  am  willing 
to  risk  unpopularity  for  that.  '  Come,  let  us 
reason  together,'  saith  the  Lord.     *  Sit  down  and 


COUNTING  THE  COST  157 

count  the  cost,'  says  Jesus  Christ.  I  do  not  ask 
any  man  to  become  a  Christian  blindly.  It  is 
the  most  reasonable  act  in  the  whole  world.  For 
the  sake  of  a  saved  life  and  of  a  rich  eternity 
you  ought  to  make  that  reckoning  immediately. 


THE  SENDING  OF  THE  SWORD 

I  came  not  to  send  peace,  but  a  sword. — Matt,  x,  34. 

There  seems  to  be  a  glaring  contradiction 
between  this  word  and  some  other  words  of 
Jesus.  Some  of  the  most  familiar  gospel-words 
— words  that  shine  down  like  stars  on  the  world's 
darkness — speak  of  Jesus  as  the  great  peace- 
bringer.  *  Peace  I  leave  with  you.  My  peace  I 
give  unto  you.  Not  as  the  world  giveth  give  I 
unto  you.'  Yet  here,  '  I  came  not  to  send  peace, 
but  a  sword.'  The  point  I  wish  you  to  observe 
in  passing  is  Christ's  disregard  for  superficial 
consistency.  Life  proves  many  a  proposition  to 
be  true  that  logic  would  readily  demonstrate  as 
false.  And  the  strange  thing  about  the  words  of 
Christ  is,  that  while  they  seem  to  contradict  each 
other  at  the  bar  of  reason,  they  link  themselves 
together  into  perfect  harmony  when  we  go  for- 
ward in  the  strength  of  them.  Are  you  fond 
of  arguing  about  Christ's  teachings  ?     You  may 

168 


THE  SENDING  OF  THE  SWORD    159 

argue  till  doomsday  and  never  find  their  power. 
They  are  words  of  life  ;  meant  to  be  lived  out  ; 
there  is  no  argument  in  all  the  armoury  like 
action.  And  it  is  only  as  we  set  our  faces 
heavenward,  making  these  statutes  our  song  in 
the  house  of  our  pilgrimage  :  only  as  we  view 
every  new  morning  as  a  new  opportunity  of 
putting  Christ  to  proof ;  it  is  only  thus,  through 
the  gathering  experience  of  days,  that  we  awaken 
to  their  power  and  truth.  I  notice  in  the  engines 
of  our  river-steamers  that  there  are  rods  that 
move  backward  as  well  as  rods  that  move  for- 
ward. A  child  would  say  they  were  fighting 
with  each  other,  and  that  half  of  the  engines  were 
going  the  wrong  way.  But  though  half  the 
engines  seem  to  go  the  wrong  way,  there  is  no 
question  that  the  ship  is  going  the  right  way  : 
out  of  the  smoke  and  stir  of  the  great  city  into 
the  bays  where  the  peace  of  God  is  resting.  So 
with  the  words  of  Christ  that  seem  to  oppose  each 
other.  Make  them  the  driving  power  of  the  soul : 
and  the  oppositions  will  not  hinder  progress,  and 
the  contradictions  will  reveal  their  unity,  and  you 
shall  be  brought  to  your  desired  haven. 

So  to  our  text ;   and   there  are   two  lights   in 


i6o    THE  SENDING  OF  THE  SWORD 

which  I  wish  to  set  it.  (i)  The  coming  of  Christ 
sends  a  sword  into  the  heart.  (2)  The  coming  of 
Christ  sends  a  sword  into  the  home. 

First,  then  :  The  coming  of  Christ  sends  a 
sword  into  the  heart. 

Now  this  is  exactly  what  I  should  have  ex- 
pected when  I  remembered  the  penalties  of  gain. 
For  everything  a  man  achieves  there  is  a  price  to 
pay.  There  comes  a  wound  with  everything  we 
win.  Think  of  the  knowledge  of  nature  that 
we  now  possess,  thanks  to  the  genius  and  toil  of 
Darwin.  It  has  thrown  a  flood  of  light  upon  the 
world  and  brought  us  nearer  to  the  ways  of  God. 
Yet  it  has  shown  us  the  struggle  for  existence, 
raging  with  a  ferocity  our  fathers  never  dreamed 
of;  it  has  revealed  to  us  nature  red  in  tooth  and 
claw ;  it  has  given  us  ears  for  the  sound  of 
deadly  battle  back  of  the  glory  of  the  summer's 
evening,  so  that  for  many  of  us  the  world  can 
never  seem  so  fair  again,  nor  the  song  of  birds  so 
innocently  sweet.  All  knowledge,  whatever  joy 
it  brings  with  it,  brings  with  it  in  the  other  hand 
a  sword.  All  love,  though  it  kindles  the  world 
into  undreamed-of  brightness,  has  a  note  in  its 
music    of    unrest    and    agony.       Every    advance 


THE  SENDING  OF  THE  SWORD     i6i 

mankind  has  ever  made,  every  new  gift  or 
endowment  man  has  won,  holds  in  its  grasp 
new  possibilities  of  pain. 

It  is  through  thoughts  like  these  that  I  come  to 
understand  how  the  coming  of  Christ  into  the 
heart  must  send  a  sword  there.  To  receive 
Christ  is  to  receive  the  Truth  ;  it  is  to  have  the 
Spirit  of  Love  breathing  within  us  :  and  if  truth 
and  love  always  bring  sorrow  with  them,  I  shall 
expect  the  coming  of  Christ  to  be  with  pain.  I 
have  no  doubt  there  are  some  here  to-night  to 
whom  Christ  came,  and  made  them  very  happy. 
You  will  never  forget  the  hour  of  your  con- 
version, when,  as  by  the  rending  of  a  veil,  the 
night  was  gone,  and  the  trees  in  the  forest  clapped 
their  hands  before  you,  and  every  star  in  the 
heavens  shone  more  brightly.  A  true  experience; 
a  very  real  experience  :  there  are  those  here  who 
look  back  on  such  an  hour.  But  Jesus  does  not 
always  come  that  way.  He  comes  with  the 
sword  as  well  as  with  the  song.  He  comes  to 
banish  the  old  shallow  happiness  ;  to  break  the 
ice  that  was  over  the  deep  waters  ;  to  touch  the 
chords  that  had  never  given  their  music  ;  to  open 
the  eyes  to  the  hills  above  the  cloud.     And  if  He 

L 


1 62    THE  SENDING  OF  THE  SWORD 

has  come  to  you  thus,  so  that  you  are  not  happier 
but  consumed  with  a  passion  of  divine  discontent, 
I  bid  you  in  God's  name  go  forward — it  is  Christ 
with  the  sword,  but  it  is  still  the  Christ.  It  is 
a  great  thing  to  feel  like  singing.  Perhaps  it  is 
greater  still  to  feel  like  struggling.  This  one 
thing  I  do,  forgetting  the  things  that  are  behind, 
I  press  towards  the  mark. 

There  are  three  ways  in  which  the  coming  of 
Christ  into  the  heart  sends  a  sword  there.  I  can 
only  briefly  touch  on  these  three  ways  to-night. 
Christ  opens  up  the  depths  of  sin  within  us  ;  that 
is  one.  We  see  what  we  are  in  the  light  of  His 
perfection.  We  were  tolerably  contented  with 
our  character  once,  but  when  Christ  comes  we 
are  never  that  again.  Like  the  sheep  that  look 
clean  enough  among  the  summer  grass,  but 
against  the  background  of  the  virgin  snow  look 
foul ;  so  you  and  I  never  know  how  vile  we  are 
until  the  background  of  our  life  is  Christ.  You 
would  have  thought  that  when  Christ  filled  Peter's 
net,  Peter  would  have  been  ecstatically  happy  ; 
but  instead  of  that  you  have  Simon  Peter  crying, 
'  Depart  from  me,  O  Lord,  I  am  a  sinful  man.' 
Christ    came    to   Simon    Peter  with    the    sword ; 


THE  SENDING  OF  THE  SWORD    163 

showed  him  himself;  taught  him  how  dark  he 
was.  And  whenever  the  sword-stroke  of  an 
indweUing  Saviour  cuts  into  the  deeps  of  a  man's 
heart,  the  wound  is  very  Hkely  to  be  sore. 

And  then  Christ  calls  us  to  a  lifelong  warfare. 
The  note  of  warfare  rings  through  the  whole 
New  Testament.  The  spirit  is  quickened  now 
to  crave  for  spiritual  things,  and  the  flesh  and 
the  spirit  must  battle  till  the  grave.  I  knew  a 
student  who  had  been  to  Keswick  and  had  drunk 
deep  of  the  teaching  of  that  school.  And  very 
noble  teaching  it  is  when  nobly  grasped.  And  he 
came  back  to  Scotland  in  a  kind  of  rapture ; 
everything  was  to  be  easy  evermore.  And  he  went 
to  one  of  our  most  saintly  and  notable  ministers 
to  tell  him  about  this  new-found  way  to  holiness, 
and  the  minister  (with  his  beautiful  smile)  looked 
at  him  and  said,  '  Ah,  sir,  it  will  be  a  sore  warstle 
till  the  end.'  For  we  wrestle  not  against  flesh 
and  blood,  but  against  principalities  and  powers 
and  spiritual  darkness.  And  the  evil  that  I 
would  not,  that  I  do,  and  the  good  I  would  that 
do  I  not.  Paul  knew  the  peace  of  God  that  passed 
all  understanding,  yet  to  Paul  the  Saviour  came 
bearing  the  sword. 


1 64    THE  SENDING  OF  THE  SWORD 

But  above  all,  it  is  by  heightening  our  ideal 
that  the  old  peace  goes  and  the  pain  begins.  It 
is  in  the  new  conception  of  what  life  may  be  that 
the  sword-stroke  cuts  into  the  heart.  We  are 
no  more  the  children  of  time  and  space.  We 
are  the  children  of  glorious  immortality.  We 
are  launching  out  on  to  a  career  that  will  advance 
and  deepen  for  ever  and  for  ever.  And  do  you 
think  that  the  birth  of  a  mighty  thought  like  that 
can  be  accomplished  without  wound  or  pain  ? 
Whenever  the  horizon  widens  there  is  sorrow. 
The  sword  of  Christ  smites  through  the  thongs 
that  bind  us.  The  sword  of  Christ  cuts  down 
the  veil  that  shadows  us.  The  sword  of  Christ 
makes  free  play  for  our  manhood  ;  we  step  into 
our  liberty  through  Him.  And  if,  with  all  that, 
there  comes  a  haunting  pain  and  an  unrest  that 
may  become  an  agony,  remember  that  Christ 
came  to  send  the  sword. 

But  I  pass  on  now  :  so,  secondly  and  lastly, 
Christ  comes  to  send  a  sword  into  the  home. 

Did    you    ever    think    how    true    that  was    of' 
Nazareth  ?     Did  you  ever  reflect  on  our  text  in 
the  light  of  that  home }      There  was  not  a  cottager 
in  all  the  village  but  would  think  of  one  home 


THE  SENDING  OF  THE  SWORD     165 

they  knew  when  they  heard  this.  Joseph  and 
Mary — was  there  any  home  in  Nazareth  on 
which  the  sunshine  of  heaven  seemed  to  rest  so 
sweetly  ?  The  peace  of  mutual  love  and  trust 
lay  on  it,  like  a  benediction  from  the  green  hills 
that  sheltered  it.  Then  into  that  quiet  home 
came  Jesus  Christ,  and  the  point  of  the  sword 
has  touched  the  heart  of  Joseph.  And  he  was 
minded  to  put  Mary  away  quietly,  for  the  great 
love  he  had  to  her.  Then  came  the  flight  to 
Egypt ;  then  Jesus  in  the  Temple — ah,  yes  ! 
the  sword  is  going  deeper  now.  And  when  the 
public  ministry  began,  and  He  was  put  to  sgorn, 
rejected,  crucified,  I  think  the  sword  had  smitten 
that  quiet  home.  It  might  have  been  so  peaceful 
and  so  happy,  with  the  laughter  of  children  and 
the  joy  of  motherhood.  It  might  have  been  so 
peaceful  and  so  happy  if  God  had  never  honoured 
it  like  this.  But  Jesus  was  born  there,  and  that 
made  all  the  difference.  It  could  never  be  the 
quiet  home  again.  Gethsemane  was  coming, 
Calvary  was  coming  ;  a  sword  was  going  to 
pierce  through  Mary's  heart.  He  came  not  to 
send  peace,  but  a  sword. 

Now    I  think   that  still    in  many  and  many  a 


1 66     THE  SENDING  OF  THE  SWORD 

home  the  coming  of  Jesus  spells  out  unrest  like 
that.  When  a  young  man  or  woman  in  a 
worldly  home  takes  a  definite  stand,  comes  out 
and  out  for  Christ,  then  the  father  and  mother 
and  every  brother  and  sister  will  understand  the 
meaning  of  this  text.  There  is  no  outward 
quarrelling — how  could  there  be  when  all  the 
family  are  members  of  the  Church  ?  But  the 
new  enthusiasm  and  the  new  consecration  and  the 
new  wholeheartedness  for  Jesus  Christ — all  well 
enough  at  the  distance  of  the  pulpit,  but  now 
brought  into  the  bosom  of  the  family — cause  unrest, 
uneasiness,  and  irritation  there,  and  that  is  Christ 
coming  with  the  sword.  I  quite  admit  the  sword 
is  needlessly  sharpened  sometimes  by  the  pride 
and  arrogance  of  the  young  convert.  I  have  had 
cases  in  my  ministry  where  all  my  sympathy  went 
out  to  the  unconverted  brothers.  But  this  I 
want  to  say.  Is  there  any  young  man  or  woman 
here  whose  difficulty  in  deciding  for  Christ  is  the 
life  at  home  ?  Well,  then,  be  very  humble  ;  do 
not  obtrude  yourself;  remember  your  ignorance, 
remember  your  youth  ;  but  as  you  have  a  life  to 
live,  and  as  you  have  a  death  to  die,  and  as  you 
have  a  God  to  meet  before  the  Throne,  do  not  let 


THE  SENDING  OF  THE  SWORD     167 

father  or  mother  or  the  happiest  home  that  ever 
cradled  man  keep  you  from  closing  with  the  call 
of  God.  If  there  must  be  trouble,  then  trouble 
there  must  be.  To  thine  own  self  be  true. 
As  man  to  man  Christ  says  to  you  to-night, 
'  I  come  not  to  send  peace,  but  a  sword.' 

A  word  to  the  children  of  sorrow  as  I  close. 
A  word  to  the  fathers  and  to  the  mothers  here. 
I  want  you  to  remember  there  is  another  way  in 
which  Christ  has  brought  the  sword  into  the 
home.  For  home  itself  has  a  wealth  of  meaning 
in  it,  that  it  never  would  have  had  save  for  the 
Gospel.  And  the  natural  love  of  the  mother  for 
her  child  has  been  deepened  and  glorified  since 
Jesus  came.  Brotherhood,  sisterhood,  father- 
hood, motherhood,  childhood,  you  do  not  know 
how  little  these  words  meant  once.  And  if  now 
they  speak  to  us  of  what  is  truest  and  tenderest, 
of  ties  unsurpassably  delicate  and  strong,  it  is  the 
love  of  Christ,  it  is  the  revelation  of  the  Father, 
it  is  the  touch  of  our  Brother  that  has  achieved  the 
change.  And  what  is  the  other  side  of  that  rich 
heritage }  Ask  any  Christian  mother  for  the 
answer.  Find  out  if  her  heart  never  bleeds  over 
her  child  ;  if  she  has  not  hours  of  haunting  and 


1 68     THE  SENDING  OF  THE  SWORD 

torturing  fears.  Develop  love,  and  you  develop 
sorrow.  Deepen  the  heart-life,  and  you  deepen 
suffering.  It  is  by  doing  that,  through  all  the 
centuries,  that  Christ  has  brought  the  sword  into 
our  homes.  The  Stoic  said,  *  Dry  up  these 
fountains  of  feeling ' ;  so  he  made  a  solitude  and 
called  it  peace.  But  Christ  deepened  and  cleansed 
life's  well-springs  here,  and  that  very  deepening 
has  brought  the  sword.  I  think  it  is  worth  it. 
I  would  not  be  a  Stoic.  It  is  better  to  live 
vividly,  spite  of  the  pain,  than  to  have  the  finger- 
tips of  all  the  angels  grope  at  a  heart  of  steel. 
After  all,  if  He  smiteth.  He  will  bind  up  again. 
If  He  woundeth,  yet  He  will  make  us  whole. 
The  sword,  like  Excalibur  swung  by  the  arm 
of  Bedivere,  shall  flash  and  sink  into  the  deeps 
for  ever,  when  we  wake  in  the  eternal  morning 
of  the  Lord. 


WASTED   GAINS 

The  slothful  man  roasteth  not  that  which  he  took  in  hunting. — 
Prov.  xii.  27. 

A  PROVERB  is  wisdom  crystallised.  It  is  the 
effort  to  sum  up  in  a  few  homely  words  what 
all  feel  to  be  true.  Men  like  to  hear  their  own 
thoughts  in  pithy  speech,  and  that  is  what  a  true 
proverb  achieves.  That  is  the  secret  of  its  hold, 
at  certain  stages  of  a  people's  life.  A  proverb  is 
not  philosophy,  nor  is  it  poetry  ;  yet  both  philo- 
sophy and  poetry  meet  in  the  proverb.  It  takes 
a  philosophic  view,  then  clothes  it  in  poetic  speech  ; 
it  does  not  want  to  preach,  it  wants  to  picture. 
There  is  a  stage  in  every  life  when  we  almost 
need  to  have  our  wisdom  so.  And  in  the  life 
of  peoples  comes  a  period  when  proverbs  rule 
like  autocrats,  only  more  wisely. 

Our    text    then    is    a    proverb,    a    compressed 
parable.      First     let    us    see     the     picture    in    it 

169 


lyo  WASTED  GAINS 

The  slothful  man  roasteth  not  what  he  took  in 
hunting.  It  is  the  picture  of  a  hunter — he  is 
a  sportsman,  but  a  lazy  fellow.  But  some  fine 
autumn  morning  this  hunter  wakens  early.  The 
air  is  keen  ;  the  dogs  are  baying  ;  the  old  en- 
thusiasm of  the  chase  stirs  in  his  heart.  He  will 
go  forth  and  hunt  to-day,  and  his  right  hand  has 
not  lost  its  cunning.  So  far  all  is  well.  Laden 
with  bird  and  beast  he  gets  back  to  his  tent. 
Then  comes  the  waste,  the  sin.  The  impulse 
is  gone  ;  the  morning's  glow  is  dead — he  cannot 
be  troubled  cooking  what  he  caught.  So  bird 
and  beast  lie  there,  day  after  day  ;  until  for  very 
shame  the  hunter  casts  them  out.  Unused,  they 
become  useless.  It  is  a  case  of  wasted  gains. 
For  all  the  good  he  gets  from  them,  he  might 
as  well  have  stayed  at  home,  and  left  his  bow 
hanging  upon  the  wall. 

Such  is  the  picture.  Now  do  you  see  the 
meaning  of  it .?  It  may  be,  that  huntsman  is  not 
far  away.  By  toil,  by  tears,  by  sharing  in  the 
toil  and  tears  of  others,  our  life  is  rich  in  gains. 
Trophies  have  fallen  to  our  bow,  and  to  the  bow 
of  the  nation  with  which  we  are  one,  and  to  the 
bow  of  the  gospel  we  believe  ;  and  we  have  never 


WASTED  GAINS  171 

roasted  what  we  took  in  hunting.     The  gains  are 
wasted  ;  the  trophies  are  unused. 

I  want  to  run  that  thought  out  into  various 
spheres  of  Hfe  ;  and  first,  the  wasted  gains  in 
bodily  life.  Take  speech  or  sight.  We  talk 
sometimes  of  speech  and  sight  as  gifts.  And 
in  a  deep  sense  they  are  gifts — gifts  of  God.  But 
for  His  touch,  so  exquisitely  skilful,  these  powers 
could  never  link  us  in  such  mystic  harmony  to 
the  great  world  without.  But  do  not  forget  that 
if  speech  and  sight  are  gifts,  they  are  also  gains. 
It  took  the  exercise  of  weeks  in  infancy  before 
that  eye  of  yours  distinguished  this  from  that.  It 
took  the  lispings  and  babblings  of  months  before 
your  tongue  fashioned  a  single  word.  And  for 
years  more  there  dawned  never  a  day  but  you 
were  practising  the  mystery  of  speech.  And  now.^ 
Compare  the  possibilities  of  sight  with  what  you 
see.  Contrast  the  possibilities  of  speech  with 
what  you  say ;  and  are  not  speech  and  sight 
terribly  wasted  gains  ^  Was  it  worth  while 
toiling  through  childish  years  only  to  see  and 
say  what  you  saw  and  said  to-day  ?  1  think  we 
shall  all  be  ready  to  confess  that  we  have  not 
roasted  what  we  took  in  hunting. 


172  WASTED  GAINS 

Again,  there  are  wasted  gains  in  our  social 
life.  Take  friendship,  for  example.  Think  for 
a  moment  of  the  toil  it  cost  to  make  a  single 
friend.  Have  you  forgotten  the  first  approaches, 
the  long  misunderstanding,  the  failures  and  the 
tears,  the  gradual  dawn  ?  Don't  you  recall  how 
painfully  you  won  your  way  into  that  other  life, 
fighting  each  step  under  the  banner  of  friendship, 
gaining  this  rampart  and  now  that,  until  you 
stood  alone,  victorious,  within  the  secret  room  ? 
It  was  a  gain,  that  friendship ;  won  after  toil  as 
strenuous  as  any  hunter's.  It  was  a  spoil,  a 
trophy,  of  the  like  of  which  life  has  but  few. 
And  it  was  yours  to  use  and  to  enjoy,  till  God 
should  separate  the  twain  by  death. 

Ah  wasted  gains  !  That  friendship,  built  like 
some  cathedral,  to-night  is  lying  in  ruins.  New 
interests  have  so  thronged  into  your  life,  and 
business  has  so  engrossed  you  in  these  eager  days, 
that  you  have  had  no  time,  nor  any  heart,  this 
many  a  day,  to  keep  your  friendships  in  repair. 
Think  of  your  home,  sir  !  Think  of  your  wife  ! 
Life  was  once  full  of  these  little  kindnesses  that 
are  far  more  to  some  hearts  than  gold  or  silver. 
Where  are  they  now  .'^     Have  you  no  time  now 


WASTED  GAINS  173 

from  your  business  and  your  paper  and  your  golf 
for  your  wife  at  all  ?  These  wasted  gains  are  the 
tragedy  of  home.  Not  sorrow  and  not  poverty 
and  not  the  white  coffin  of  your  little  child — that 
is  no  tragedy.  God  may  bless  that  to  bring  the 
sunshine  back,  and  link  the  separating  hearts 
again.  The  tragedy  is  the  passing  of  love's 
kindness  ;  the  sloth  that  lets  us  squander  what 
we  won  ;  the  waste  of  the  sweet  gains  of  golden 
days. 

Once  more,  there  are  wasted  gains  in  our  public 
and  our  national  life.  It  is  a  commonplace  to  say 
that  all  our  privileges  and  rights  as  citizens  have 
been  dearly  bought.  But  after  all,  half  of  our 
life  is  spent  in  finding  out  that  commonplaces 
are  true,  so  let  us  hear  this  commonplace  again. 
Our  privileges  were  bought  for  us  at  a  great  price. 
Our  humblest  liberties  were  won  in  battle.  The 
charters  of  our  rights  are  written  in  blood.  Men 
have  been  labouring,  battling,  dying  since  ever 
Britain  was  a  nation,  to  give  us  whatsoever  of 
liberty  we  enjoy.  Read  over  your  history  again 
— what  is  it  all  ?  Is  it  the  record  of  the  corona- 
tion of  the  kings  and  of  the  deaths  of  queens  .^^ 
It   is   the    story  of   man's   spirit,  hampered,   op- 


174  WASTED  GAINS 

pressed,  confined,  yet  always  struggling  for  its 
own.  It  is  the  record  of  the  soul,  crying  and  not 
to  be  denied,  for  its  God-given  rights.  That  is 
what  history  means,  if  it  means  anything.  It  is 
the  tale  of  how  our  gains  were  won.  And  every 
one  of  them,  I  shall  make  no  exception,  is  marked 
with  struggle  and  is  wet  with  tears.  And  oh,  the 
pity  of  it,  how  we  waste  them  ! 

There  is  our  restful  Sunday,  and  it  was  dearly 
bought.  But  every  country  road  and  country 
inn  on  Sunday  is  thronged  with  men  who  never 
think  of  God.  There  is  the  open  Bible,  and  it 
was  dearly  bought,  yet  now  it  is  every  book  before 
the  Bible.  There  is  our  liberty  of  worship,  and 
it  was  dearly  bought,  yet,  come  a  rainy  Sunday, 
and  half  the  churches  in  the  city  are  unfilled. 

And  there  is  our  right  of  voting  too,  of 
moulding  public  life  and  sharing  in  it,  and  that 
was  dearly  bought.  And  hundreds  of  men  and 
women  are  so  careless  that  they  will  sit  at 
home,  or  visit,  or  go  to  work,  and  never  trouble 
to  record  their  vote.  We  understand  all  ages 
but  our  own.  We  grapple  with  all  problems  but 
the  problems  at  our  doors.  We  hear  all  cries 
except  the   cries    that   rise   to-day  from   a  great 


WASTED  GAINS  175 

city's  need.  It  is  not  right.  We  are  not  roasting 
what  we  took  in  hunting. 

Lastly,  in  our  moral  and  spiritual  life  there  is 
the  same  tale  of  wasted  gains.  Had  we  but  used 
all  we  have  learned  ;  had  we  but  held  by  all  that 
suffering  taught  us ;  had  we  but  clung  to  what 
we  wrestled  for,  we  should  be  nearer  heaven  to- 
night. But  we  have  squandered  it  like  any 
prodigal,  and  flung  it  to  the  winds,  and  almost 
all  the  lessons  are  to  learn  again  ! 

Here  is  a  man  who  had  a  serious  illness  once. 
It  brought  him  to  the  gates  of  death.  And  lying 
there  things  looked  very  different  from  what  they 
had  looked  before.  He  caught  some  glimpses  of 
God  then,  and  of  the  infinite  worth  of  eternal 
things,  and  of  the  value  of  the  soul.  It  was  a 
gain  inestimable.  And  now  to-night  that  man  is 
better.  That  man  is  here — in  church.  And  what 
of  God  ?  Forgotten.  What  of  eternal  things  ? 
Forgotten.  What  of  the  soul  ?  Forgotten.  The 
tides  of  the  world's  life  have  swept  them  out. 
It  is  a  wasted  gain. 

Here  is  a  father  who  lost  his  child  once.  And 
in  that  first  great  woe  he  knelt,  and  broken- 
hearted asked  for  pardon  for  his  sin,  and  vowed 


176  WASTED  GAINS 

his  life  to  God  till  the  day  brake.  And  he  is  here, 
that  father — with  lips  as  careless,  and  with  life 
as  worldly,  as  though  the  child  he  loved  had 
never  died. 

Here  is  a  young  fellow  who  set  himself  once  to 
master  his  besetting  sin.  And  he  did  master  it, 
thanks  be  to  God.  He  cast  it  out,  and  trod  it 
under  foot,  and  walked  with  a  new  light  upon 
his  face — and  we  all  saw  it.  That  was  five  years 
ago,  five  months  ago.  And  now,  slowly  and 
silently  in  the  unguarded  moments,  the  serpent 
has  been  creeping  back  to  its  place  again.  The 
gain  of  that  great  effort  has  been  wasted,  and 
the  old  habit  is  the  master  still ! 

Brethren  and  sisters !  I  charge  you  to  remem- 
ber this.  Squander  your  gains,  and  God  will 
take  them  from  you.  Neglect  your  talents,  and 
God  will  take  your  talents  back.  Misuse  your 
sight,  and  God  will  rob  you  of  the  power  to  see. 
Despise  your  teachings,  and  God  will  not  teach 
you  any  more. 

Only  not  yet  !  not  yet !  God  is  still  gracious  ! 
Man  of  one  talent,  of  one  gain,  God  has  not 
reached  His  hand  out  yet,  and  taken  that  gain 
away.     Out  of  all  waste  and  failure  thou  mayst 


WASTED  GAINS  177 

yet  organise  victory.  'I  can  do  all  things  through 
Christ  who  strengtheneth  me/  What,  Paul ! 
could  St  thou  do  that,  a  man  of  like  passions  with 
ourselves  ?  Then  so  may  we.  We  can  still  use, 
thanks  to  the  grace  that  saves  us,  the  spoils  that 
were  dearly  taken  in  the  hunting. 


M 


UNDETECTED  LOSSES 

Grey  hairs  are  here  and  there  upon  him,  yet  he  knoweth  not. — 
Hos.  vii.  9. 

Our  text  refers  to  the  northern  kingdom  of 
Israel  whose  decay  was  so  keenly  felt  by  Hosea. 
That  kingdom — the  kingdom  of  the  tribes — had 
started  well.  It  was  a  protest  on  behalf  of 
liberty.  It  had  the  benediction  of  prophets  at 
its  birth,  it  had  Elijah  and  Elisha  to  inspire  it. 
Cradled  in  the  fairest  part  of  Palestine,  enjoying 
a  freedom  to  which  Judah  was  a  stranger,  the 
possibilities  of  such  a  state  seemed  boundless  ; 
yet  when  Hosea  wrote,  the  dream  was  dying; 
the  possibilities  had  passed  away.  Israel  had  lost 
the  energy  of  youth.  The  quick  eye  and  the 
strong  hand  were  gone.  Israel  was  falling  into 
sad  descrepitude.  There  was  a  touch  of  moral 
senility  in  Israel.  And  the  worst  of  it  was  that 
Israel  did  not  know  it,  she  was  unconscious  of 
the  tremendous  drop.      The  nation  had  suffered 

178 


UNDETECTED  LOSSES  179 

the  worst  of  all  national  losses,  and  the  losses 
were  undetected  losses.  Grey  hairs  were  here 
and  there  upon  him,  yet  he  knew  it  not. 

Our  text,  then,  leads  us  very  naturally  to  the 
general  thought  of  undetected  losses.  And  it  is 
on  that  subject — the  things  we  lose  without 
knowing  we  are  losing  them — that  I  wish  to 
speak  a  little  to-night.  Some  losses  reveal 
themselves  at  once.  There  are  things  which, 
lost,  leave  the  heart  blank  and  desolate.  We 
see  at  a  glance,  by  the  naked  gap  among  the 
grass,  that  some  tree  has  been  uprooted  there  ; 
but  many  of  life's  worst  losses  are  not  so. 
There  is  loss,  but  there  is  no  sense  of  loss. 
Virtues,  ideals,  things  bright  and  strong  and 
beautiful,  steal  away  silently  from  us  in  the 
dark.  They  used  to  say,  '  The  gods  have  feet 
of  wool ' — and  what  is  divine  departs  on  feet  of 
wool.  If  we  could  only  see  our  own  deterioration, 
perhaps  we  would  cry  to  God  about  it  more.  But 
our  best  goes  without  any  sound  of  trumpet, 
and  we  never  dream  how  poor  we  have  become. 
'  Grey  hairs  are  here  and  there  upon  us,  and  we 
know  it  not.* 

Of  course  I  know  that  the  other  side  is  true. 


i8o  UNDETECTED  LOSSES 

If  some  of  our  worst  losses  are  unnoticed,  some 
of  our  gains  are  undetected  also.  The  fact  is 
that  all  that  makes  life  rich  has  a  way  of  coming, 
as  of  going,  silently.  The  kingdom  of  Christ 
is  the  very  highest  manhood,  and  the  kingdom 
cometh  not  with  observation.  It  is  very  perilous 
to  be  sure  we  are  growing  good.  Moses  wist 
not  that  his  face  shone.  I  think  that  no  one 
would  have  been  more  surprised  than  David  had 
he  been  told  he  was  the  man  after  God's  own 
heart.  Life  is  not  all  a  battle  or  a  race  ;  life 
is  a  walk  with  God,  life  is  a  growth.  And  as  in 
walking  with  somfe  pure-souled  friend  we  are  won 
towards  purity  and  do  not  know  it,  and  as  in  all 
growth  from  the  seed  to  summer  beauty,  there 
is,  as  it  were,  an  undetected  movement,  so  in  the 
truest  life  there  is  a  sweet  unconsciousness — except 
ye  become  as  little  children.  Like  Milton,  we  are 
blind  to  our  own  poem.  Like  Beethoven,  we  are 
deaf  to  our  own  music.  We  reach  the  highest, 
and  we  lose  the  highest,  and  we  know  it  not. 

I  think  our  Lord  was  voicing  that  deep  truth 
when  He  said,  '  If  the  salt  have  lost  its  savour.' 
All  loss  of  character,  loss  of  a  fair  name,  all  loss 
of  influence,  ideal,  spirituality,  is  typified  in   the 


UNDETECTED  LOSSES  i8i 

salt  that  has  lost  its  savour.  The  salt  was  white 
yesterday :  is  it  less  white  to-day  ?  And  it 
weighed  five  ounces  when  you  measured  it  last 
week.  Will  it  weigh  one  scruple  less  to-morrow  ? 
Look  at  it,  handle  it,  take  it  externally,  and 
measure  it :  it  has  not  changed  or  altered  in 
the  least,  has  it  ?  Yet  yesterday  it  was  fit  for 
the  food  of  man,  and  to-day  it  is  only  fit  to 
be  trodden  under  foot.  Something  has  gone 
from  it  that  no  balance  can  measure.  Some- 
thing impalpable,  invisible,  imponderable.  You 
might  have  watched  all  night  into  the  morning, 
and  you  would  never  have  seen  the  savour  go. 
And  our  Lord  means  that  as  the  salt  loses  its 
savour,  so  you  and  I  lose  what  is  best  and 
brightest.  The  best  and  the  brightest  never 
says  good-bye.  It  does  not  touch  us  on  the 
brow  when  we  are  sleeping,  and  tell  us  the  ship 
is  ready  :  it  must  go.  Under  the  pressure  of  a 
worldly  city,  and  by  the  gradual  slackening  of  a 
man's  grasp  of  God,  through  minute  failures  and 
infinitesimal  cowardices,  by  yieldings  that  are 
almost  imperceptible,  it  is  thus  that  the  ideal 
dies  away,  it  is  thus  that  influence,  power, 
womanhood  are  lost.     I  wonder  if  that  is  going 


1 82  UNDETECTED  LOSSES 

on  to-night,   here  ?      '  Grey   hairs  are   here   and 
there  upon  him,  and  he  knows  not.' 

Now,  can  we  explain  these  undetected  losses  ? 
Is  it  possible  to  discover  why  we  are  thus  blind  ? 
Well,  I  think  that  often  our  losses  go  unnoticed 
because  of  the  stir  and  excitement  of  our  life. 
Just  as  the  soldier  in  the  rush  of  battle,  when  the 
bugle  has  sounded  and  the  bayonet  is  fixed — just 
as  that  soldier,  charging  with  a  cheer,  is  struck, 
and  hardly  feels  that  he  is  wounded  ;  so  it  may 
be  that  in  the  busy  city,  where  many  a  man  is 
fighting  just  as  keenly  as  they  ever  fought  at 
Alma  or  at  Inkerman,  it  may  be  that  there  too 
men  hardly  feel  that  the  life-blood  has  begun 
to  ebb  away.  We  very  readily  forget  ourselves 
when  we  are  privileged  to  listen  to  exquisite 
music  ;  and  when  the  music  of  life  and  of  the 
world  is  sweet,  it  is  easy  to  forget  the  still  small 
voice.  Do  you  think  that  the  prodigal  felt  his 
loss  of  home  so  long  as  his  money  lasted  in  the 
far  country?  His  new-found  liberty  was  far  too 
sweet  for  that — the  dicing  and  the  dancing  and 
the  wine.  "^  I  mean  that  when  life  is  crowded  and 
tumultuous,  whether  it  be  with  business  or  with 
pleasure,  a  man  may  lose  much  and  never  feel 


UNDETECTED  LOSSES  183 

the  loss.  Hence  one  of  the  great  ministries  of 
sickness.  It  says  to  us,  '  Come  ye  apart  and  rest 
a  while.'  We  recognise  ourselves  in  the  dark 
hours  of  suffering,  when  the  drearier  night 
succeeds  the  dreary  day.  It  is  only  then  the 
truth  breaks  in  on  us.  We  see  what  we  have 
been,  what  we  have  lost.  Alone  with  his 
conscience  and  alone  with  God,  a  man's  losses 
are  not  unnoticed  any  more. 

I  think,  too,  that  a  reason  for  our  blindness 
lies  in  this,  that  with  all  loss  there  comes  some 
kind  of  gain.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  dead 
loss  in  the  universe.  We  live  in  a  universe  of 
compensation.  Spring  goes,  but  the  glory  of 
Summer  comes.  Summer  departs,  but  the  wealth 
of  Autumn  is  left.  We  should  be  blind  to  half 
the  glories  of  the  forest  if  the  gale  did  not 
sweep  its  million  leaves  away.  Poor  Lot,  when 
he  made  his  foolish  choice,  lost  Abraham's  com- 
pany ;  but  he  gained  Sodom,  and  Sodom  was 
choicely  situated.  And  the  prodigal  gained  liberty 
and  pleasure,  and  the  gain  made  him  oblivious  of 
his  home.  Ah,  brother,  if  all  that  was  best  and 
highest  passed  from  our  life  and  left  a  dead 
blank  behind   it,   then  in  that  very  moment  we 


1 84  UNDETECTED  LOSSES 

should  feel  the  loss,  and  crave  to  have  the 
highest  back  again.  But  life  is  far  more  intricate 
than  that,  thanks  to  its  principle  of  loss  and 
gain.  You  lose  an  Abraham,  and  gain  a  Sodom. 
You  lose  the  saintly  purity  of  wifehood,  and  gain 
the  stolen  waters  that  are  sweet.  You  lose  a 
father,  but  you  gain  your  liberty.  You  lose 
a  conscience,  but  you  gain  a  fortune.  And  the 
point  I  want  to  impress  on  you  is  this,  that 
often  these  lower  gains  are  so  alluring,  so  sweet, 
so  satisfying  to  every  sense,  that  we  never  see 
how  the  best  is  dying  out  of  us.  '  Grey  hairs  are 
on  us,  and  we  know  it  not.' 

But  the  great  cause  of  our  neglected  losses 
lies  in  the  gradual  and  slow  method  of  the  loss. 
There  are  men  whose  hair  has  whitened  in  a 
night.  I  warrant  you  they  saw  that  in  the 
morning.  But  it  is  not  of  that  Hosea  speaks, 
when  he  uses  the  happy  figure  of  our  text. 
All  that  was  best  had  perished  out  of  Israel. 
Why  was  Israel  ignorant  of  that  ?  The  loss  had 
come  so  slowly,  surely,  silently,  Israel  had  failed 
to  detect  it  when  it  came.  If  all  the  birds  ceased 
singing  in  the  summer,  the  dullest  city  ear  would 
note  the  silence.      If  the  forest  were   swept  bare 


UNDETECTED  LOSSES  185 

by  one  swift  gale,  the  blindest  of  us  would  find 
cause  for  wonder.  But  the  music  of  the  woods 
ceases  so  gradually,  and  the  trees  are  stripped 
so  silently  and  slowly,  that  winter  is  with  us, 
songless  and  desolate,  before  we  have  eyes  for 
what  is  being  lost.  Some  sins  carry  immediate 
penalties  ;  their  consequences  leap  into  light  at 
once.  The  moment  a  man  commits  them  he 
is  ruined.  And  we  know  that  :  perhaps  there- 
fore we  avoid  them.  But  there  is  another  ruin 
quite  as  sure  as  that,  wrought  silently  through 
deterioration  of  the  years,  and  it  steals  on  the 
spirit  of  a  man  so  gradually  that  grey  hairs  are 
on  him  and  he  knows  it  not.  In  one  of  the 
most  charming  of  Charles  Dickens's  stories,  the 
heroine — Esther  Summerson — had  a  fever.  And 
when  she  rose  from  the  bed  of  fever  the  sweet, 
pure  beauty  of  her  face  was  gone.  She  saw  it  at 
once.  It  was  too  evident  to  miss.  She  had  to 
accept  it  as  a  cross  from  God.  But  there  are 
other  ways  in  which  beauty  disappears.  Ten 
years  of  worldliness,  and  utter  thoughtlessness, 
and  frivolous  selfishness,  and  an  unkindly  heart — 
all  that  will  do  it  quite  as  well  as  fever.  And  yet 
the  woman  hardly  understands  why  no  one  ever 


1 86  UNDETECTED  LOSSES 

calls  her  beautiful  now.  I  tell  you  that  is  a 
parable  of  character.  It  is  the  silent  dying  away 
of  what  is  best  that  is  the  great  tragedy  in  this 
great  city.  Lightning  is  dangerous.  So  is  dry 
rot,  remember.  *  Grey  hairs  are  here  and  there 
upon  him,  and  he  knows  not.* 

Now  just  remember — and  with  this  I  close — 
that  sooner  or  later  all  losses  will  be  known. 
How  you  are  living,  whether  or  not  you  pray, 
the  secret  carelessness,  the  buried  sin — the  day 
is  coming,  far  sooner  than  you  think,  when  that 
shall  not  be  a  secret  any  more.  Sudden  tempta- 
tion comes,  or  change  of  circumstances  ;  a  call, 
or  a  crisis  perhaps,  or  if  not  these,  eternity  ;  and 
all  that  we  have  made  of  common  days,  and  all 
the  sappings  of  principle  we  shrouded,  will  be 
written  out  so  that  he  that  runs  may  read. 
Samson  arose  and  shook  himself  as  at  other  times, 
and  he  wist  not  that  his  strength  was  gone 
from  him  :  but  *  the  Philistines  are  upon  thee, 
Samson,'  and  he  learned  his  undetected  losses 
then.  Be  not  deceived  ;  God  is  not  mocked  ; 
whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that  shall  he  also  reap. 


WHEN  THE  CHILD-SPIRIT  DIES 

Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. — Matt.  xix.  14. 

It  is  a  beautiful  thought,  of  such  are  the  kingdom 
of  heaven.  It  is  a  beautiful  conception,  daring 
and  fresh  as  it  is  beautiful,  that  the  one  attribute 
of  all  the  citizens  of  God  must  be  the  possession 
of  the  childlike  heart.  We  need  not  be  learned, 
though  it  is  sweet  to  be  learned  ;  we  need  not 
be  gifted,  though  God  be  thanked  for  gifts.  But 
we  must  be  childlike  ;  that  is  the  one  necessity. 
Christ  takes  an  unalterable  stand  on  that. 

Now  of  course  to  be  childlike  is  one  thing ; 
and  it  is  quite  another  to  be  childish.  I  some- 
times fear  we  have  so  confused  the  two,  that  a 
certain  contempt  has  touched  the  nobler  of  them 
— we  use  our  common  words  so  carelessly,  and 
treat  that  magnificent  instrument  of  speech  so 
lightly.  To  be  childlike  is  to  have  the  spirit  of 
the  child,  to  have  the  touch  of  the  divine  about 
us   still.      It    is    to    live    freshly    in   a   glad   fresh 

187 


i88    WHEN  THE  CHILD-SPIRIT  DIES 

world,  with  a  thousand  avenues  into  the  every- 
where out  of  this  dull  spot  that  we  call  now. 
But  to  be  childish  is  to  be  immature  ;  to  have  no 
grip  of  things,  never  to  face  facts  squarely  ;  and 
he  is  a  poor  Christian  who  lives  so.  In  under- 
standing, says  the  apostle,  I  would  have  you  men. 
It  is  one  distinguishing  glory  of  our  Lord  that 
He  looked  the  worst  in  the  face,  and  called  it 
bad.  But  the  guileless  heart,  and  the  soul  that 
can  serve  and  sing,  because  there  is  love  and  home 
and  fatherland  about  it — all  that  is  childlike — 
like  the  children — and  of  such  is  the  kingdom  cf 
heaven. 

There  can  be  little  doubt,  too,  that  in  claiming 
the  child-spirit  Jesus  was  reaching  up  to  the  very 
highest  in  man.  '  Wisdom,'  says  Wordsworth  in 
his  own  quiet  way — so  helpful  in  these  noisy  days 
— '  Wisdom  is  ofttimes  nearer  when  we  stoop, 
than  when  we  soar,'  and  Jesus,  stooping  to  the 
little  children,  was  really  rising  to  the  crown  of 
life.  Show  me  the  greatest  men  in  human  history 
— the  men  who  were  morally  and  nobly  great — 
and  I  shall  show  you  in  every  one  of  them  tokens 
and  traces  of  the  childlike  heart.  It  is  the 
middle-men,  the  worldly  middle-men,  the  men  of 


WHEN  THE  CHILD-SPIRIT  DIES     189 

one  talent  who  bury  it  in  the  napkin,  it  is  these 
who  are  locked  into  their  prison-house,  and  have 
lost  the  happy  daring  of  the  child.  Great  souls, 
with  the  ten  talents  flaming  into  genius,  live  in  a 
world  that  is  so  full  of  God,  that  men  say  they 
are  imprudent,  careless  ;  and  Jesus  sees  that  they 
are  little  children.  Who  was  it  that  defined  a 
genius  as  a  man  who  keeps  unsullied  through 
the  stern  teaching  of  the  years  the  spirit  of  the 
child  ?  I  think  that  Christ  would  have  liked  that 
definition.  There  is  genius  in  childhood  ;  there 
is  childhood  in  genius  too.  '  He  hath  put  down 
the  mighty  from  their  seats,  and  exalted  them 
of  low  degree.' 

And  you  cannot  read  the  story  of  Jesus  Christ 
without  feeling  that  to  the  very  close  of  it  the 
child-spirit  was  alive  in  Him.  'A  little  child 
shall  lead  them,'  said  the  prophet  ;  do  you  think 
it  was  only  a  poetic  fancy.?  The  Bible  is  too 
terribly  in  earnest  to  have  any  margin  for  poetic 
fancies.  When  I  study  the  records  of  the  life  of 
Jesus,  and  stumble  on  some  unfathomable  mystery, 
immediately  I  find  my  heart  responding,  '  This  is 
the  Son  of  God.'  And  when  I  find  Him  healing 
the  Syrophenician's  daughter,  raising  the  widow's 


190     WHEN  THE  CHILD-SPIRIT  DIES 

son,  or  weeping  in  infinite  pity  by  the  grave — '  This 
is  the  Son  of  Man.'  But  when  I  light  on  these 
passages  about  the  lilies  ;  about  the  sparrow  fall- 
ing, and  the  raven  who  toiled  not ;  then,  in  a 
thousand  touches  such  as  these,  fresh,  penetrating, 
wonderful,  I  feel  that  after  all  the  prophet  was 
right — a  little  child  shall  lead  them.  No  scoffing 
hardened  Him.  No  disappointment  soured  Him. 
No  pain  dulled  the  keen  edge  of  His  love.  He 
still  believed,  spite  of  Iscariot.  He  had  still  a 
Father,  spite  of  Calvary.  And  that  sweet  spirit, 
as  of  a  little  child,  has  been  the  dew  of  heaven  to 
the  world. 

The  spirit  of  the  child,  then,  never  died  in 
Jesus.  I  wonder  if  it  has  died  in  you  ^  It  dies 
away  so  slowly  and  so  gradually,  under  the 
pressure  of  a  worldly  city,  that  we  hfirdly  notice 
how  far  we  have  drifted.  But  the  greatest  losses 
are  the  losses  we  never  observe  ;  the  crumiblings  in 
secret  till  this  or  that  is  ruined  ;  the  stealing  away 
of  the  dearest  in  the  dark  ;  and  there  is  no  loss 
more  tragic  for  a  soul  than  the  loss  of  that  spirit 
of  the  child. 

You  ask  me  why.^  I  think  there  are  three 
reasons ;    there    are    three    penalties   that    follow 


WHEN  THE  CHILD-SPIRIT  DIES     191 

when  the  child-spirit  dies,  and  the  first  is,  that  we 
cease  to  be  receptive.  The  joy  of  childhood  is  its 
receptivity.  The  greatest  duty  of  it  is  to  receive. 
The  child  knows  nothing  of  a  haunting  past  yet, 
and  it  is  not  yet  anxious  about  the  future.  Its 
time  is  now^  with  its  magnificent  content,  and  now 
is  God's  time  too,  do  not  forget.  But  you  and  I 
have  so  overlaid  this  present  with  yesterday's  sin 
and  with  to-morrow's  project,  that  we  have  little 
heart  for  the  message  that  comes  to-day.  We 
are  not  receptive  as  the  little  child  is,  we  do 
not  welcome  impressions  and  angels  now.  And 
so  we  grow  very  commonplace  and  dull  ;  there 
is  plenty  of  dust  about  us,  and  no  dew.  O 
brother,  let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead  !  Do  not 
be  living  in  a  quenched  yesterday.  And  take  no 
anxious  thought  about  to-morrow.  Consider  the 
lilies  ;  be  a  child  again.  To  feel  the  eternal  in 
this  passing  moment,  to  catch  the  rustle  of  God's 
garment  now,  not  to  be  burdened  with  a  vain 
regret,  not  to  be  peering  forward  through  the 
curtain  ;  all  that,  with  the  open  eye  and  feeling 
heart,  is  to  be  childlike.  And  of  such  is  the 
kingdom  of  heaven. 

No  doubt  it  is  that  very  receptivity  that  makes 


192    WHEN  THE  CHILD-SPIRIT  DIES 

the  little  children  dwell  apart.  I  have  long 
thought  that  the  aloofness  of  the  Christian,  his 
isolation  in  the  busiest  life,  was  closely  akin 
to  the  aloofness  of  the  child.  You  talk  of 
loneliness  ? — I  tell  you  there  are  few  such  lonely 
creatures  as  little  children.  And  they  are  lonely, 
not  because  of  sorrow ;  and  not,  thank  God, 
because  their  lives  are  empty.  They  dwell  apart, 
because  they  live  in  their  own  world,  bright, 
wonderful,  with  its  own  visions  and  voices,  and 
you  and  I  never  touch  even  with  our  finger-tips 
these  ivory  gates  and  golden.  What  I  suggest  is 
that  the  isolation  of  the  saint  is  like  the  isolation 
of  the  child.  For  the  Christian  also  dwells  apart, 
but  not  in  the  solitude  of  emptiness.  He  has  his 
world,  just  as  the  children  have  ;  old  things  have 
passed  away  from  him  in  Christ.  And  in  that 
new  creation  where  the  Saviour  reigns,  and  which 
the  worldly  heart  has  never  seen,  there  is  a 
peopled  isolation  like  that  of  the  little  children, 
for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

Once  more,  when  the  child-spirit  dies,  then  the 
simplicity  of  faith  is  gone.  There  is  an  exquisite 
purity  about  the  faith  of  children  ;  sometimes 
they  make  us  blush — they  trust  us  so.     Intensely 


WHEN  THE  CHILD-SPIRIT  DIES     193 

eager,  inquisitively  curious ;  why  ?  why  ?  from 
the  sunrise,  to  the  sunset — but  all  the  time  how 
they  are  trusting  us  !  Ah,  if  we  had  only  trusted 
God  like  that  !  It  is  something  to  be  trusted, 
if  only  by  a  helpless  babe,  and  even  God  is 
happier  when  we  trust  Him.  But  better  than 
to  be  trusted,  is  to  trust ;  to  walk  by  faith  and 
not  by  sight ;  and  when  the  spirit  of  the  child 
dies  out,  it  is  not  possible  to  walk  that  way  again. 
For  when  we  cease  to  be  childlike  we  grow 
worldly,  and  to  be  worldly  is  always  to  be  faith- 
less ;  and  one  great  danger  of  this  commercial 
city  is  to  develop  faithless  worldly  men.  I  have 
no  doubt  you  call  me  an  idle  dreamer  because  I 
plead  for  the  child-spirit  in  the  city.  But  it  is 
better  to  be  a  dreamer  than  a  coward,  and  woe 
is  me  if  I  preach  not  the  gospel.  '  Of  such  is  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  ' — minister  !  '  Of  such  is  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  ' — merchant !  '  Of  such  is 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  ' — schoolmaster,  doctor, 
workman,  servant  !  Are  you  of  such. ^  It  is  not 
my  question.  I  only  pass  it  on  from  Jesus 
Christ  ! 

Lastly,   when    the    child-spirit   dies,    then   the 
feeling  of  wonder   disappears.      For   the  child  is 

N 


194    WHEN  THE  CHILD-SPIRIT  DIES 

above  all  else  a  wonderer,  and  is  set  in  the  centre 
of  a  wonderful  world.  There  is  nothing  common 
or  unclean  for  children  ;  all  things  are  big  with 
wonder  for  the  bairn.  The  rolling  of  the  wagon 
in  the  street,  and  the  gathering  banks  of  cloud 
down  by  the  sunset  ;  and  the  opening  flower,  and 
the  father's  morning  kindness,  and  the  mother's 
stories,  and  the  birthday  joy — the  little  magicians 
so  trick  them  out  with  glory,  that  they  make 
the  pomp  of  emperors  ridiculous.  Childhood,  as 
of  one  our  poets  sang,  is — 

'  The  hour 
Of  glory  in  the  grass,  of  splendour  in  the  flower.' 

What  a  poor  thing  is  life  when  the  wonder  of 
it  all  passes  away  !  I  remember  a  magnificent 
sermon  by  John  Ker,  that  master  in  the  great  art 
of  spiritual  preaching,  and  this  is  the  title  of  it, 
'  God's  word  suited  to  man's  sense  of  wonder.' 
*I  had  rather,'  said  Ruskin,  *live  in  a  cottage  and 
wonder  at  everything,  than  live  in  Warwick 
Castle  and  wonder  at  nothing.'  You  have  all 
felt  the  trials  of  existence,  I  want  you  to  feel  the 
wonder  of  it  now  ;  and  the  great  wonder  that  the 
Lord  should  be  your  Shepherd,  and  should  have 


WHEN  THE  CHILD-SPIRIT  DIES     195 

died  upon  Calvary  for  you.  His  name  shall  be 
called  Wonderful— become  a  child  again,  and  feel 
it  so.  For  except  ye  be  born  again,  ye  cannot 
see  the  kingdom  ;  and  of  such  is  the  kingdom 
of  heaven. 


THE  LEISURE  OF  FAITH 

He  that  believeth  shall  not  make  haste.— Is.  xxviii.  i6. 

I  THINK  we  shall  all  agree  that  in  the  life  of  our 
modern  city  there  is  recognisable  the  note  of 
haste.  One  has  only  to  watch  one  of  our  crowded 
streets  to  detect  the  pressure  at  the  back  of  life. 
Life  is  more  urgent  than  it  used  to  be,  the 
quietude  of  an  older  day  is  passing.  The  stream 
had  still  and  shadowed  reaches  in  it  once,  but 
to-day  it  hurries  forward  very  swiftly. 

Now  it  is  notable  that  with  that  greater  haste 
there  is  found,  without  any  question,  a  lesser  faith. 
There  is  a  certain  shrinking  of  the  faculty  of 
faith  in  the  organism  of  our  complex  life.  I  am 
no  pessimist,  and  I  trust  that  none  of  you  are. 
Life,  for  all  its  sorrow,  is  too  real,  too  deep,  too 
rich,  to  write  that  name  of  failure  on  its  brow. 
But  the  most  cheerful  optimist  cannot  be  blind  to 
this,  that  faith,  and  reverence  which  is  the  child  of 
faith,  are  not  conspicuous   in  our  modern   city  ; 

196 


THE  LEISURE  OF  FAITH         197 

and  the  singular  thing  is,  that  with  that  decline 
of  faith  we  should  have  witnessed  the  increase  of 
hurry.  Did  you  ever  think  that  these  features 
were  connected  ?  The  Bible  affirms  it  in  the 
clearest  manner.  You  say  that  the  absence  of 
restfulness  in  modern  life  springs  from  the  fiercer 
struggle  for  existence.  But  the  Bible  goes  a 
great  deal  deeper  than  that  :  the  want  of  rest 
is  rooted  in  want  of  trust.  Depend  upon  it,  he 
that  believeth  not  is  always  in  danger  of  feverish 
impatience.  Depend  upon  it,  that  to  the  end  of 
time,  he  that  believeth  shall  not  make  haste. 

Of  course,  it  is  very  necessary  for  clear  think- 
ing to  distinguish  the  haste  of  our  text  from 
strenuous  speed.  Every  one  who  is  at  all  in 
earnest  about  things  feels  the  push  and  the  pull 
to  get  his  life-work  done  ;  but  a  strenuous  and 
resolute  forwardness  such  as  that  is  very  different 
from  the  spirit  of  haste.  *  Unhasting  but  unrest- 
ing *  should  be  the  motto  on  every  Christian's 
coat  of  arms.  It  is  impossible  that  a  true 
Christian  should  be  a  sluggard.  Such  new  con- 
ceptions of  life  have  dawned  on  him  ;  duty,  and 
service,  and  the  building  up  of  character,  are  so 
expanded  when  God  has  touched  the  soul,  that  as 


198         THE  LEISURE  OF  FAITH 

with  the  stirring  music  of  the  trumpet  we  are 
called  to  redeem  the  time  because  the  days  are 
evil.  But  the  man  who  hastes  never  redeems  the 
time.  You  never  redeem  anything  by  hurrying 
up.  And  it  is  of  that  impatience,  so  closely  akin  to 
fickleness — and  an  age  of  hurry  is  extraordinarily 
fickle — it  is  of  that  impatience  which  knows  no 
inward  quietude,  and  which  robs  life  of  its  music 
and  its  march,  that  the  prophet  is  speaking 
here.  He  that  believeth  shall  run  and  not  be 
weary.  He  that  believeth  shall  press  toward  the 
mark.  He  that  believeth — God  to  his  tardy  feet 
has  promised  to  lend  the  swiftness  of  the  roe. 
But  spite  of  that — nay,  because  of  that — he  that 
believeth  shall  not  make  haste. 

I  like  to  apply  our  text  to  hasty  judgments. 
He  that  believeth  shall  not  make  haste  to  judge. 
It  is  amazing  how  rashly  and  how  recklessly  we 
pass  severe  judgments  on  each  other.  There  is 
nothing  harder  than  suspense  of  judgment  in  our 
daily  intercourse  with  men  and  women.  Even 
the  kindliest  are  in  danger  of  prejudging,  and 
those  who  are  not  kindly  do  so  constantly.  Now 
do  you  see  how  we  are  to  escape  that  sin  ?  Do 
you  observe  the  secret  of  suspended  judgment  ? 


THE  LEISURE  OF  FAITH         199 

It  is  not  a  matter  of  caution  after  all — he  that 
believeth  shall  not  make  haste  to  judge.  In  all 
disparagement  there  is  a  lack  of  faith.  In  every 
hasty  summing  up  of  character  what  is  really 
revealed  is  our  own  want  of  trust.  If  we  only 
believed  in  our  brother  a  little  more,  if  we  only 
credited  the  divine  within  him  ;  if  we  only  realised 
that  under  the  outward  man  there  is  a  hidden  man 
of  the  heart  striving  and  struggling,  we  should 
be  readier  to  think  more  kindly  than  we  do.  I 
want  you  to  believe  that  under  all  disguise  there 
is  a  spark  of  the  divine  fire  in  every  heart.  I 
want  you  to  believe  that  God  is  not  far  away  even 
from  the  life  that  you  and  I  call  godless.  He 
that  believeth  in  the  love  and  patience  of  Heaven, 
and  in  the  image  of  God,  defaced  but  not  de- 
stroyed, will  not  make  haste  to  judge. 

Again,  I  think  our  text  is  full  of  meaning  for 
those  who  are  in  a  great  hurry  to  enjoy,  and 
perhaps  the  haste  to  be  rich  and  taste  life's 
pleasures  was  never  so  markedly  felt  as  it  is  now. 
It  is  always  a  difficult  thing  to  wait.  David  was 
never  more  saintly  in  his  life  than  just  when  he 
waited  patiently  for  God.  But  to-day,  when  the 
means   of  enjoyment   are   so  multiplied  and   the 


200        THE  LEISURE  OF  FAITH 

music  of  the  world  is  doubly  sweet,  the  monotony 
of  duty  has  become  doubly  irksome.  It  is  very 
hard  to  be  bound  to  that  desk  all  day,  while  the 
golden  hours  of  youth  are  flying  so  quickly.  It  is 
very  hard  from  morning  till  weary  night  to  be 
standing  behind  the  counter  in  that  warehouse, 
when  life  might  be  so  rich  and  many-coloured  if 
only  there  were  a  litde  liberty  and  leisure.  Has 
not  one  of  our  own  poets,  himself  a  minister  of 
the  gospel,  sung,  *  Gather  the  rosebuds  while  ye 
may,  old  time  is  still  aflying  '  ?  Hence  springs  a 
certain  rebellion  at  our  lot,  a  craving  for  im- 
mediate satisfaction  ;  a  bitter  willingness  to 
forget  the  morrow  if  only  we  can  snatch  some 
pleasure  now  ;  and  to  all  men  and  women  who 
are  tempted  so — and  multitudes  are  tempted  so 
to-day — comes  the  stern  word  of  the  eternal 
God,  *  He  that  believeth  shall  not  make  haste.' 
The  modern  catechism  asks  '  What  is  man's  chief 
end  ? '  and  the  answer  it  gives  is  *  Man's  chief 
end  is  to  enjoy  life.'  But  the  older  catechism  was 
wiser  when  it  answered  *  Man's  chief  end  is  to 
enjoy  Gt?^,'  and  God  can  only  be  enjoyed,  be  sure 
of  it,  in  the  sphere  of  duty  and  along  the  line  of 
work.     Outside  of  that,  the  presence  of  God  is 


THE  LEISURE  OF  FAITH         20J 

lost,  and  the  cup  is  always  bitter  when  that  is  lost. 
Life  has  not  been  given  us  to  enjoy,  life  has 
been  given  us  to  use  ;  and  I  fancy  you  can  use 
it  better  where  you  are,  than  if  you  had  your  own 
sweet  will  to-morrow.  However  grey  and  cheer- 
less duty  be,  a  man  must  trample  down  his  moods 
and  do  it.  Then,  in  God's  time,  far  sooner  than 
we  dream,  the  richest  joys  will  reach  us  unex- 
pectedly, and  life  will  unfold  itself,  out  of  the 
mists,  into  a  thing  of  beauty  and  a  joy  for  ever. 
He  that  believeth  can  say  *  Get  thee  behind  me, 
Satan.*     He  that  believeth  will  not  make  haste. 

Again,  I  keep  whispering  this  text  within  my 
heart,  when  I  observe  our  common  haste  to  see 
results.  The  man  who  believes  in  himself  and  in 
his  message  is  never  in  a  hurry  to  see  results. 
The  army  general  who  cannot  trust  himself  grows 
feverish  for  some  brilHant  deed  of  arms.  But 
Lord  Kitchener  will  wait  and  plan  and  scheme 
till  the  whole  nation  grows  restless  and  impatient ; 
he  believes  in  himself,  and  he  will  not  make 
haste.  It  is  always  a  mark  of  inferior  capacity  to 
be  in  a  feverish  hurry  to  be  recognised.  No 
genius  ever  goes  to  sleep  with  the  wild  hope  that 
to-morrow  he  may  wake  up  famous.     Genius  is 


202         THE  LEISURE  OF  FAITH 

sublimely  confident  and  easy  ;  with  the  touch 
of  God-given  power  comes  sweet  assurance. 
What  I  feel  is  that  if  the  church  of  Christ 
really  believes  in  her  mission  and  her  message, 
she  must  not  be  feverish  about  results.  I  think 
it  is  oftener  faithlessness  than  faith  that  clamours 
for  immediate  statistics.  The  purposes  of  Heaven 
are  very  long,  and  God  fulfils  Himself  in  many 
ways.  The  soul  of  man  is  infinitely  delicate,  and 
you  can  never  tabulate  the  powers  that  touch  it. 
Be  not  weary  in  well-doing.  You  see  no  fruit  ? 
So  be  it.  Remember  that  with  your  covenanted 
Lord  a  thousand  years  are  as  a  single  day.  He 
that  believeth  is  strong  to  sow  in  tears,  but  he 
shall  not  make  haste  to  reap  in  joy. 

Now  when  we  turn  to  the  dealings  of  God 
with  men  there  is  one  thing  that  impresses  us 
very  deeply.  It  is  the  slowness  of  all  God's 
procedure  in  guiding  and  blessing  our  humanity. 
God  never  hurries  ;  He  moves  with  infinite  ease. 
He  takes  an  age  to  perfect  one  of  His  thoughts 
within  us.  What  I  might  call  the  leisureliness  of 
providence  is  written  large  on  human  history. 
Think  of  the  weary  discipline  of  Israel  till  they 
had  grasped  the  mighty  truth  that  God  is  one  ; 


THE  LEISURE  OF  FAITH         203 

remember  how  men  had  to  wait  for  centuries 
before  the  world  was  ready  for  Christ  Jesus  ; 
reflect  that  nineteen  centuries  have  gone,  and  we 
seem  only  to  be  touching  the  hem  of  Christ's 
garment  yet — and  you  will  apprehend  the  leisure- 
liness  of  heaven.  In  all  God's  dealings  with  the 
human  race,  and  in  all  God's  dealings  with  the 
human  soul,  there  is  purpose,  urgency,  infinite 
persistence  ;  but  I  think  no  man  will  detect 
hurry  there. 

Now  take  our  text  and  let  it  illuminate  that 
thought.  It  is  because  God  believes  in  man  that 
He  refuses  to  hurry  his  development.  If  there 
were  no  potentiality  in  human  nature,  no  promise 
of  a  divine  ideal  at  its  core,  a  single  season  might 
be  enough  to  ripen  it,  as  it  ripens  the  corn  that 
rustles  in  the  field.  There  are  creatures  that 
dance  and  die  all  in  one  summer's  evening ;  and 
a  summer's  evening  is  long  enough  for  them. 
But  a  thousand  evenings  are  not  enough  for 
man,  there  is  such  promise  in  the  sorriest  life. 
When  I  think  how  long  a  little  child  is  helpless, 
absolutely  dependent  on  another's  love  ;  when  I 
think  of  the  slow  stages  of  our  growth  up  the 
steep  slope  to  moral  and  spiritual  manhood  ;  when 


204         THE  LEISURE  OF  FAITH 

I  remember  that  every  vision  that  beckons  us, 
and  every  hope  that  fires  us,  and  every  truth  that 
illuminates  and  saves  us,  was  won  out  of  the  riches 
of  God,  through  the  discipline  and  the  chastise- 
ment of  ages,  I  feel  that  the  belief  of  God  in 
man  is  wonderful :  He  hath  believed  in  us,  and 
therefore  hath  made  no  haste.  We  speak  a  great 
deal  about  our  faith  in  God.  Never  forget  God's 
glorious  faith  in  us. 

And  when  I  pass  to  the  earthly  life  of  Jesus, 
I  am  arrested  by  the  same  procedure  there.  He 
was  leisurely,  just  because  He  trusted  men.  He 
did  not  despair  of  them  when  they  were  back- 
ward ;  He  did  not  reject  them  because  they  were 
slow  to  learn.  When  He  had  chosen  a  heart.  He 
trained  it  with  infinite  patience,  and  just  because 
He  believed  in  it,  He  would  not  hurry.  Com- 
pare His  treatment  of  Judas  with  that  of  Peter. 
Christ  did  not  believe  in  the  sincerity  of  Judas. 
He  knew  him  to  be  a  hypocrite,  and  a  traitor,  and 
*  what  thou  doest  do  quickly ' — haste  !  get  done 
with  it !  But  Peter  !  Christ  thoroughly  believed 
in  Peter.  He  saw  the  possibilities  in  Peter.  He 
knew  that  underneath  the  sand,  driven  by  the 
wind,  there  was  bed-rock  to  build  a  church  upon. 


THE  LEISURE  OF  FAITH         205 

So  Peter  was  allowed  to  go  out  into  the  night, 
and  to  weep  bitter  tears  under  the  look  of  Christ. 
There  was  no  hurry.  Let  him  weep  his  eyes  out. 
Jesus  believed  in  Peter,  and  let  him  alone.  And 
Jesus  was  scourged  and  hung  upon  the  cross,  and 
lay  in  the  grave,  and  rose  on  the  third  day,  and 
the  hours  seemed  endless  to  the  fallen  disciple, 
yet  never  a  word  of  comfort  came  from  his  Lord. 
Then  at  long  last,  *  Simon,  son  of  Jonas,  lovest 
thou  Me  ? '  '  Yea,  Lord,  Thou  knowest  that  I 
love  Thee.*  The  wheels  of  the  chariot  of  Christ 
had  tarried,  just  because  He  trusted  that  great 
heart. 

And  so  we  come  back  to  where  we  started 
from — the  freedom  from  feverishness  that  is  a 
mark  of  faith.  Do  you  believe  ?  Then  the 
peace  that  passes  understanding  shall  keep  your 
heart  and  mind  through  Jesus  Christ.  Do  you 
believe — but  let  me  use  a  little  illustration  that 
may  help  to  make  clearer  what  I  mean. 

I  notice  that  in  these  flimsy  tenements  which 
are  being  run  up  in  various  quarters  of  the  city, 
there  is  a  great  hurry  to  get  all  finished  by  the 
term.  There  is  a  feverish  eagerness  apparent  to 
have  everything  ready  and  complete  by  Whitsun- 


2o6         THE  LEISURE  OF  FAITH 

day.  But  the  old  cathedrals  were  not  built  that 
way.  The  old  cathedrals  took  hundreds  of  years 
to  build.  Men  lived  and  died,  and  handed  on  the 
work,  and  there  was  plenty  of  time,  for  was  not 
the  work  God's  ?  And  every  finial  and  turret  was 
perfected,  for  the  builders  said  the  '  eyes  of  God 
were  there.'  Are  ye  not  temples  of  the  living 
God.^  Shall  not  the  work  go  on  through  all 
eternity  ?  Be  zealous,  strenuous !  Give  thy 
whole  heart  to  things  !  But  he  that  believeth 
shall  not  make  haste. 


THE    OPENED    WINDOWS 

His  windows  being  open  in  his  chamber  toward  Jerusalem. — 
Daniel  vi.  lo. 

It  was  in  an  hour  of  very  sore  distress  that 
Daniel  acted  in  the  manner  of  which  our  text 
speaks.  The  crisis  had  come  which  he  had  long 
expected,  and  the  crisis  drove  him  to  the  feet  of 
God.  In  the  years  that  immediately  preceded 
the  Scottish  Reformation,  there  was  one  thing 
that  rankled  in  the  breast  of  all  true  Scotsmen. 
It  was  the  presence  and  the  power  of  Frenchmen 
in  almost  all  the  high  offices  of  state  in  Scotland. 
In  much  the  same  way  there  was  widespread 
irritation,  rising  at  times  into  very  bitter  envy,  « 
among  the  aristocratic  patriots  of  Babylon  at  the 
powerful  eminence  of  foreigners  like  Daniel.  In 
Scotland,  David  Rizzio  was  assassinated ;  but 
Babylon  was  more  advanced  in  civilisation  than 
Scotland.  The  presidents  and  the  princes  and 
the  counsellors  took  a  more  politic  way  of  accom-i 

207 


2o8         THE  OPENED  WINDOWS 

plishing  their  designs.  Men  were  forbidden  to 
pray  for  thirty  days.  They  must  ask  no  petition 
of  any  God  or  man,  save  of  Darius.  And  it  was 
then,  when  the  royal  decree  was  signed,  and  when 
Daniel  fully  recognised  his  peril,  that  he  went 
into  his  house  to  pray,  his  windows  being  open 
toward  Jerusalem. 

So  much  for  the  historical  setting  of  the  words. 
Now,  bringing  them  into  a  larger  environment, 
I  find  that  they  carry  three  suggestions.  The 
first  is  the  moral  significance  of  indifferent  actions. 
The  second  is  the  true  relationship  of  the  unseen 
and  the  seen.  The  third  is  the  right  attitude 
towards  the  unattainable.  Allow  me  to  dwell 
on  each  for  a  few  nioments. 

First,  then,  whenever  I  think  of  Daniel's  pro- 
cedure, it  reminds  me  of  the  moral  significance  of 
indifferent  actions.  There  was  nothing  remark- 
able in  opening  a  window.  It  is  one  of  those 
common  acts  which  we  do  without  a  thought. 
The  Babylonian  slaves  in  Daniel's  house  would 
not  attach  the  slightest  importance  to  it.  Yet, 
every  time  that  Daniel  opened  that  lattice,  it 
spoke  of  a  heart  that  was  travelling  to  Jerusalem. 
Jt  was    the    index   of  a    soul    that    in    seductive 


THE  OPENED  WINDOWS        209 

Babylon  was  true  to  the  God  and  the  Temple 
of  its  race.  It  revealed  a  spirit  which  honours 
could  not  destroy ;  a  love  which  distance  was 
powerless  to  quench;  a  heroism  which  no  im- 
pending doom  could  shake.  The  action  in  itself 
was  immaterial,  but  we  see  how  full  of  signifi- 
cance it  was. 

There  is  another  verse  in  the  Old  Testament 
that  I  should  like  you  to  note  in  connection  with 
our  text.  I  read  in  Genesis  that  when  Abram 
and  Lot  parted,  Lot  pitched  his  tent  towards 
Sodom  (xiii.  12).  There  was  no  fault  to  be 
found  with  the  actual  place  of  pitching  ;  it  was 
just  like  a  hundred  other  scenes  of  bivouac. 
There  was  good  pasture  for  the  weary  flocks, 
a  brook  to  wash  off  the  soiling  of  the  day,  and 
sufl^cient  shelter  from  the  keen  night  winds. 
Viewed  in  itself,  the  choice  was  immaterial.  It 
was  like  the  opening  and  closing  of  a  lattice. 
The  moral  significance  lies  in  the  word  toward — 
Lot  pitched  his  tent  that  night  toward  Sodom. 
It  was  the  direction,  hot  the  place,  that  was 
important.  It  was  the  trend  of  the  journey, 
not  the  actual  pitch.  Had  Lot  been  travelling 
away    from    Sodom,   the    site  would    presumably 


2IO         THE  OPENED  WINDOWS 

have  been  ideal.  But  Daniel  opened  his  windows 
toward  Jerusalem,  and  so  doing  revealed  a  heart 
true  to  the  highest.  Lot  pitched  his  tent  toward 
Sodom,  and  the  tragedy  lay  in  the  direction. 

The  truth,  then,  which  I  wish  to  impress  on 
you  is  this,  that  there  are  actions  which  are  quite 
indifferent  in  themselves,  and  which  in  them- 
selves, when  viewed  in  isolation,  may  have  no 
moral  importance  whatsoever ;  and  yet  if  they 
reveal  the  trend  of  character,  and  the  direction 
that  our  thoughts  and  wishes  and  feelings  are 
setting  in,  no  man  dare  say  that  they  are  imma- 
terial. It  is  not  the  actual  achievement  of  my 
life,  it  is  my  life's  direction  that  is  of  supreme 
importance ;  and  as  the  handful  of  grass  thrown 
up  into  the  wind  will  tell  whence  the  wind  comes 
and  whither  it  is  going,  and  as  the  straw  will  show 
which  way  the  current  runs,  so  deeds,  intrinsically 
insignificant,  may  be  big  with  meaning,  if  they 
disclose  the  movement  of  a  life.  There  are  some 
things  that  are  always  and  everywhere  right. 
There  are  other  things  that  in  all  circumstances 
are  wrong.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  a  state 
of  being,  for  instance,  in  which  falsehood  should 
be  a  virtue  or   bravery  a  vice.     But  in   between 


THE  OPENED  WINDOWS         211 

these  everlasting  fixities,  there  lies  a  whole  world 
of  endeavour  and  of  action,  and  the  moral  value 
of  the  action  is  determined  by  the  trend  and 
purpose  of  the  underlying  character.  A  score  of 
lattices  might  be  flung  wide  in  Babylon,  and 
might  indicate  nothing  save  that  the  heat  was 
lessening.  But  the  lattice  of  Daniel,  open  toward 
Jerusalem,  was  the  witness  of  an  heroic  heart. 
And  a  score  of  tents  might  be  pitched  in  the 
plains  where  Lot  was,  and  might  mean  no  more 
than  that  the  pasturage  was  good.  But  the  tent 
of  Lot,  pitched  there  towards  Sodom,  told  of  a 
character  hurrying  to  ruin. 

I  read  the  other  day  a  characteristic  anecdote 
about  Professor  Faraday.  The  lecture  was  over, 
and  he  was  leaving  the  class-room,  when  some 
little  article  dropped  from  his  hand  on  the  floor. 
The  Professor  searched  for  it,  but  it  was  nowhere 
to  be  found ;  it  is  extraordinary  how  things  will 
hide  themselves  on  a  level  floor.  And  one  of 
his  students  who  was  with  him  said,  '  Never 
mind,  sir,  it  is  of  no  consequence  whether  we 
find  it  to-night  or  no.'  '  That  is  quite  true,' 
said  the  Professor,  '  but  it  is  of  the  gravest  con- 
sequence   to    me    that    I    be    not    baffled    in    my 


212         THE  OPENED  WINDOWS 

determination  to  find  it' — he  knew  the  moral 
value  of  such  actions.  We  are  all  too  ready  to 
say,  *  It  does  not  matter.'  We  are  too  fond  of 
thinking,  '  What 's  the  harm  ? '  We  isolate  our 
actions,  view  them  abstractly,  judge  them  by 
inexorable  codes  of  right  and  wrong.  But  the 
man  who  is  in  earnest  about  moral  excellence  will 
never  forget  the  complexity  of  character;  he  will 
feel  that  what  for  other  men  is  harmless,  for  him 
may  be  a  step  towards  degradation.  The  supreme 
question  is  whither  is  he  tending — is  it  towards 
Sodom  or  is  it  towards  Jerusalem  ? 

In  the  second  place,  I  catch  a  glimpse  in  our 
text  of  the  true  relationship  of  the  unseen  and 
the  seen. 

When  Daniel  opened  his  window,  as  his  custom 
was,  it  was  not  Babylon  that  he  desired  to  see  : 
his  heart  was  far  away  in  his  own  country.  Just 
as  the  Scottish  emigrant  in  Canada  dreams  of  the 
mountains  and  moors  where  he  was  born,  and  sees 
the  glen  again,  and  the  burn  swollen  with  the  rain, 
and  the  dripping  bracken,  and  the  glory  of  purple 
heather :  so  Daniel  in  exile,  heartsick  if  not 
homesick,  craved  for  the  land  and  the  Temple 
that  he  loved.      He  could  not  see  them  ;    they 


THE  OPENED  WINDOWS         213 

were  beyond  his  vision.  It  would  bring  them  no 
nearer  to  fling  wide  the  lattice.  Yet  an  instinct 
that  every  one  of  us  can  understand  moved  him 
to  open  the  window  towards  Jerusalem.  He 
could  brook  no  barrier  betwixt  him  and  the 
unseen. 

And  then,  what  happened  when  the  window  was 
opened  ?  Why,  the  life  in  Babylon  broke  in  on 
Daniel  noisily.  It  had  been  dulled  and  deadened 
and  indistinct  before  ;  but  now  it  rolled  like  a 
tide  into  the  room.  He  heard  the  wagon  labour- 
ing through  the  street,  and  the  wagoners  shouting 
in  their  upland  dialect.  He  heard  the  angry 
chafl^ering  in  the  market,  and  the  voices  of  children 
romping  in  the  squares.  He  saw  the  aged  resting 
in  the  shadow,  and  the  mothers  with  their  infants 
in  their  arms.  And  now  a  soldier,  and  now  a 
laden  country-woman,  and  now  a  beggar,  and 
now  a  Chaldean  priest,  passed  by  under  the  open 
lattice.  It  was  not  to  see  all  this  that  Daniel 
opened  his  window.  His  window  was  open  to 
the  unseen  Jerusalem.  But  in  the  very  instant 
of  his  opening  it  so,  the  life  around  him  became 
doubly  real. 

Now  that  is  like  a  little  parable  of  something 


214         THE  OPENED  WINDOWS 

that  happens  to  the  truly  religious  man.  Let  him 
open  the  window  of  his  heart  on  the  unseen,  and 
the  life  at  his  door  grows  doubly  real  to  him.  It 
is  not  true  that  a  heart-hunger  for  the  unseen 
robs  the  life  round  us  of  its  charm  and  import. 
The  surging  and  strange  life  of  common  streets, 
the  crooning  of  motherhood,  the  song  of  children, 
are  touched  into  meanings  hitherto  undreamed  of, 
when  the  lattice  of  the  soul  is  opened  Christwards. 
When  the  gaze  of  the  heart  is  towards  its  unseen 
Saviour,  then  do  we  love,  because  He  first  loved 
us.  And  slowly  but  surely,  kindled  by  love's 
insight,  there  grows  the  vision  of  the  worth  of 
life.  We  cannot  despise  men  for  whom  Jesus 
lived.  We  cannot  scorn  men  for  whom  Jesus 
died.  We  cannot  be  indifferent  to  human  suffer- 
ing, when  we  remember  the  compassion  of  the 
Saviour.  We  cannot  think  lightly  of  mother- 
hood or  childhood,  when  we  recall  the  home  at 
Nazareth.  The  life  in  the  street,  so  coloured 
and  so  changeful  ;  and  the  life  in  the  cottage, 
with  its  joy  and  pain  ;  childhood  and  age,  suffer- 
ing and  sorrow — all  are  enriched  and  illumined 
and  transfigured,  when  the  soul's  window  is 
opened  toward  Jerusalem. 


THE  OPENED  WINDOWS         215 

There  is  no  such  instance  in  history  of  this 
as  the  life  of  Jesus  Christ  Himself.  He  is  the 
peerless  example  of  that  true  relationship  that  is 
suggested  to  us  by  the  text.  He  lived  and  moved 
among  eternal  things.  He  enjoyed  unbroken 
fellowship  with  God.  His  heart  was  in  heaven 
where  His  Father  dwelt,  as  truly  as  the  heart  of 
Daniel  was  in  Jerusalem.  Yet,  though  all  the 
windows  of  His  soul  were  opened  heavenward, 
the  life  around  Him  was  infinitely  precious  ;  the 
meanest  villager  ceased  to  be  insignificant,  to  a 
heart  whose  lattice  was  thrown  wide  on  God. 
He  could  not  disown  the  woman  at  the  well  ; 
He  dare  not  spurn  the  woman  who  was  a  sinner. 
He  was  moved  with  compassion  for  the  widow  of 
Nain,  and  he  wept  before  the  grave  of  Lazarus. 
There  was  never  an  anger  like  the  anger  of 
Jesus  ;  there  was  never  a  pity  so  resourceful  and 
so  strong.  No  man  could  charge  our  Lord  with 
other-worldliness.  His  vision  of  God  was  no 
ecstatic  rapture.  All  things  around  Him  were 
more  real  and  near,  because  the  window  was  open 
toward  Jerusalem. 

Lastly,  and  very  briefly,  our  text  suggests  the 
right  attitude  towards  the   unattainable.      Daniel 


2i6  THE  OPENED  WINDOWS 

had  thriven  very  well  in  exile,  and  had  risen  to 
quite  remarkable  power  ;  but  chains  are  still 
chains  however  they  be  gilded,  and  Daniel  was 
a  prisoner  in  Babylon.  He  would  never  again 
cross  the  fords  of  Jordan,  nor  ever  look  upon 
the  Holy  City.  His  prospects  of  return  were 
hopeless  ;  'he  was  doomed  to  a  perpetual  separa- 
tion. Yet,  though  all  hope  of  seeing  Jerusalem 
was  banished,  we  read  that  he  opened  his  windows 
toward  Jerusalem,  and  that  suggests  to  me  the 
right  attitude  towards  the  unattainable. 

For  every  man,  who  is  striving  to  live  nobly, 
is  struggling  after  things  he  cannot  reach.  He 
has  his  Jerusalem,  but  it  is  far  away,  and  he 
knows  that  on  this  side  of  the  grave  he  will  not 
see  it.  Dimly,  and  as  in  the  mystical  distance, 
he  has  grown  conscious  of  an  ideal  character ;  but 
the  failure  and  the  flaw  of  every  day,  and  the 
recurrent  weakness,  and  the  unbridled  heart,  tell 
him  too  plainly  that  he  is  far  off  from  it.  It  is 
when  we  feel  that  deeply  that  we  are  tempted  to 
despair.  It  is  in  such  hours  that  we  fall  to  lower 
levels.  We  grow  heartsick ;  we  shall  never  see 
Jerusalem  ;  let  us  be  contented  with  our  little 
room.     But,  I  say  to  you,  dare  to  be  a  Daniel. 


THE  OPENED  WINDOWS         217 

Fling  wide  the  lattice  towards  what  you  can  never 
reach.  Have  the  casement  open  towards  the 
unattainable  ;  and  by  the  open  casement  be  in 
prayer.  And  though  the  love  and  purity  you 
long  for,  and  all  the  depth  and  strength  of  perfect 
character  be  as  far  distant  from  your  hungry 
heart  as  Judea  from  the  yearning  heart  of 
Daniel,  yet  in  the  very  craving  lies  nobility, 
and  the  pledge  of  attainment  in  the  tearless 
morn.  Daniel  to-day,  in  the  sunshine  and  love 
of  God,  in  the  land  where  they  fear  no  death, 
and  need  no  Temple,  possesses  and  enjoys  all  that 
he  craved  for  once, — when  he  opened  his  windows 
toward  Jerusalem. 


IS   LIFE   A   TRAGEDY? 

At  a  meeting  of  our  Literary  Society  on  Tuesday 
night,  a  young  man  read  an  essay  on  the  Tragedy 
of  Life.  I  did  not  hear  the  essay,  but  I  gathered 
from  the  subsequent  discussion,  which  I  did  hear, 
that  it  was  an  able  paper.  Now  there  was  one 
thing  in  that  discussion  which  impressed  me  very 
much.  One  speaker  remarked  that  in  the  essay 
there  had  been  no  reference  to  Jesus  Christ. 
The  essayist  replied  that  if  the  minister  was  doing 
his  duty  in  the  pulpit,  that  argument  should  be. 
familiar  to  them  all.  I  thought  the  whole  discus- 
sion very  significant  of  the  trend  and  the  temper 
of  these  present  times.  And  I  should  like  there- 
fore to  speak  for  a  little  on  what  the  writer  called 
Life's  Tragedy,  viewed  from  the  standpoint  of 
Christ  Jesus. 

Now  we  all  admit  that  there  are  tragedies  in 
life.  We  cannot  live  very  long  without  observing 
that.     What  does  impress  us  as  our  life  advances 

218 


IS  LIFE  A  TRAGEDY?  219 

IS  how  men  try  to  conceal  the  tragedies,  and 
how  the  secret  breaks  through  all  disguise,  and 
gets  written  out  so  that  he  who  runs  may 
read.  It  is  thus  that  we  grow  more  charitable 
with  the  years.  We  learn  to  read  the  signs 
of  the  times  more  fluently.  We  might  have 
been  bitter,  too,  had  we  had  that  to  bear 
It  is  so  easy  to  be  unkind,  when  we  are  un- 
happy. 

But  it  is  one  thing  to  say  that  life  has  tragedies 
and  another  to  talk  of  the  tragedy  of  life.  The 
depths  of  the  heavens  may  be  of  cloudless  azure, 
though  thunderous  clouds  are  moving  in  the  sky. 
What  then  is  tragedy.^  It  is  a  play,  or  drama, 
that  marches  with  stately  movement  to  calamity. 
Dante  called  his  great  epic  a  comedy  because  it 
closed  in  the  glorious  vision  of  God.  But  in 
tragedy  the  characters  move  onward,  through 
love,  and  hate,  and  the  passions  of  joy  and 
sorrow,  to  an  end  that  is  shadowed,  and  an 
issue  that  is  dark  ;  and  when  above  the  char- 
acters is  seen  the  hand  of  Fate,  moving  them 
irresistibly  to  their  doom,  then  we  have  tragedy 
in  the  full  meaning  of  the  term.  When  men 
speak  of  the  tragedy  of  life,  I   take  it  that  that 


220  IS  LIFE  A  TRAGEDY? 

is  exactly  what  they  mean.  No  one  denies 
that  life  has  exquisite  joys.  No  one  denies  that 
there  are  days  of  sunshine,  seasons  when  all  the 
trees  in  the  forest  clap  their  hands.  But  if  life 
is  tragedy,  its  ultimate  end  is  darkness  ;  the  play 
is  progressing  sorrow-ward,  not  joyward.  We 
have  to  cross  the  bar  into  the  boundless  deep, 
but  we  dare  not  hope  to  see  our  Pilot  there.  No 
matter  what  the  struggle  and  the  strain,  life  is  not 
tragedy  if  the  end  be  happy.  It  is  only  when 
we  believe  that  human  life  is  moving  towards  a 
climax  of  unhappiness,  that  we  can  talk  of  the 
tragedy  of  life. 

Now  the  mood  or  temper  which  interprets  the 
world  so  goes  by  the  familiar  name  of  pessimism. 
A  pessimist  is  one  who  says  life  is  a  tragedy. 
And  I  call  pessimism  a  mood  or  temper  because 
it  reveals  itself  in  every  human  activity.  It  bursts 
out  into  poetry  in  Byron.  It  creeps  into  politics 
under  the  name  of  Nihilism.  It  becomes  a  religion 
in  the  great  creed  of  Buddha.  It  has  its  philo- 
sophers in  men  like  Schopenhauer.  Had  you 
asked  Byron  what  he  thought  of  life,  he  would 
have  answered  that  for  all  its  glories  it  was 
tragedy.      If  you  travelled   to   the   dreamy   East 


IS  LIFE  A  TRAGEDY?  221 

and  asked  the  Buddhist  what  he  thought  of 
life,  he  too  would  tell  you  that  human  life  is 
tragedy,  and  that  the  great  aim  of  Hfe  is  to  get 
rid  of  selfhood.  Millions  believe,  then,  that  life 
is  a  tragedy,  and  all  who  believe  that,  we  call 
pessimists. 

And  I  think  it  is  one  marked  feature  of  to-day 
that  that  mood  has  crept  into  our  popular  litera- 
ture. The  pessimistic  spirit  has  been  popularised 
in  a  way  that  the  world  has  never  seen  before. 
I  do  not  forget  that  the  consummate  masters 
have  never  accepted  that  gospel  of  despair.  I  do 
not  forget  the  magnificent  faith  of  Browning,  nor 
the  quiet  and  luminous  hope  of  Tennyson,  though 
even  Tennyson,  as  his  life  advanced,  seems  to 
have  lost  some  of  his  strong  assurance.  But  the 
fact  remains  that  the  plays  and  novels  and  stories 
that  are  greedily  devoured  by  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands to-day  are  largely  tinged  with  the  pessimistic 
temper.  Once,  a  novel  would  hardly  have  been 
called  a  novel,  unless  it  closed  with  the  ringing  of 
marriage  bells.  But  now  it  is  quite  allowable  to 
close  with  the  blighting  of  hope  in  a  wild  and 
stormy  sunset.  The  belief  that  life  for  all  its 
effort  is  but  tragedy,  that  the  world  is  hurrying 


222  IS  LIFE  A  TRAGEDY? 

forward  to  the  dark,  that  man  is  the  powerless 
instrument  of  fate,  a  helpless  pawn  on  the  chess- 
board of  the  universe — this  thought,  subtly  and 
stealthily,  is  finding  its  way  into  the  hearts  of 
thousands  in  the  leisure  hours  they  give  to  lighter 
reading. 

Now  I  wonder  if  we  can  explain  at  all  the 
prevalence  of  this  pessimistic  temper.  I  think 
there  are  three  things  that  help  us  to  account 
for  it. 

Firstly,  there  is  a  very  noble  reason.  It  is  that 
we  take  life  very  seriously  now.  We  are  all  in- 
terested in  the  great  social  problems,  and  that  has 
opened  our  eyes  to  the  miseries  abroad.  It  was 
all  very  well  for  the  poet  Pope,  for  instance,  to 
pen  that  famous  line,  '  Whatever  is,  is  right.' 
But  that  was  the  optimism  of  ignorance,  not  of 
knowledge,  the  faith  of  an  age  that  shut  its  eyes 
to  facts  ;  and  I  think  a  recoil  from  that  was  quite 
inevitable  :  brave  hearts  were  bound  to  rise  up 
and  deny  it.  Depend  upon  it,  that  if  one  century 
says  *  Whatever  is,  is  right,'  the  next  century 
will  take  its  own  revenge  and  say  *  Whatever  is, 
is  wrong.'  The  world  advances  as  the  pendulum 
swings,   and   through  extremes  we  come   to  the 


IS  LIFE  A  TRAGEDY?  223 

mean  at  last.  I  think,  then,  there  is  something 
noble  in  our  pessimism.  It  at  least  means  that  we 
have  begun  to  see  and  feel.  We  are  taking  life 
so  seriously  now,  and  we  are  feeling  the  pressure 
of  its  burden  so,  that  the  shallow  optimist  who 
refuses  to  face  facts  is  out  of  date  by  half  a 
century. 

But  then  again  this  is  a  time  of  contrasts,  and 
a  time  of  sharp  contrasts  is  almost  always  pessi- 
mistic. It  is  when  class  is  separated  from  class, 
that  men  begin  to  feel  the  hopelessness  of  things. 
In  a  little  village  you  rarely  find  a  pessimist  ; 
the  lawyer  and  the  cobbler  are  too  good  friends 
for  that.  I  mean  that  the  rich  are  not  so  very 
rich,  and  the  poor  are  not  so  very  poor  ;  they 
mix  and  mingle  in  a  common  brotherhood, 
and  there  is  nothing  like  that  for  keeping  the 
heart  sweet.  But  it  is  not  village-life  that  is 
prominent  to-day.  It  is  the  life  of  the  great  and 
crowded  city.  And  in  a  city  the  rich  are  a  great 
deal  richer,  and  the  poor  in  a  score  of  senses  are 
far  poorer  ;  and  the  separation  and  conflict  inevit- 
ably engendered  carry  the  iron  into  innumerable 
souls.  Our  modern  pessimism  is  not  the  child  of 
the  country.      There  is  no  glory  of  the  Highland 


224  IS  LIFE  A  TRAGEDY? 

heather  in  it ;  no  music  of  the  burn,  nor  any 
hit  of  birds.  It  is  the  child  of  the  city,  that 
place  of  glaring  contrasts,  of  downcrushing,  of 
seething  discontent.  It  is  there  that  men  speak 
of  the  tragedy  of  life. 

But  perhaps  there  is  a  deeper  reason  still. 
I  refer  to  the  materialism  that  is  current.  There 
is  a  strong  tendency  abroad  that  meets  us  con- 
stantly, to  explain  man  in  terms  of  force  and 
matter.  In  some  quarters  the  great  thought  of 
evolution  has  been  pushed  so  far,  and  the  doctrine 
of  heredity  has  been  so  strained,  that  man  is 
practically  an  automaton,  and  what  we  call  free- 
will a  sweet  delusion.  Such  teaching  is  but 
fatalism  in  disguise.  It  is  John  Calvin  without 
the  grace  of  God.  And  Calvinism  with  God's 
grace  was  stern  enough  ;  but  without  it,  it  is 
the  nursing-mother  of  despair.  If  I  thought 
there  was  no  reality  in  my  free-will,  I  should 
become  a  pessimist  to-morrow.  If  I  am  only 
impelled  towards  the  inevitable  by  the  pres- 
sure of  the  long  past  that  is  within  me,  life 
immediately  becomes  a  tragedy  for  me.  And 
I  doubt  not  that  it  is  some  dim  sense  of  that, 
moving  in  what  is  called   the  spirit  of  the  age, 


IS  LIFE  A  TRAGEDY?  225 

that  gives  what  I  have  named  the  pessimistic 
note  to  so  many  books  that  are  being  widely 
read. 

Now  (and  I  speak  with  reverence  and  adora- 
tion and  under  a  deep  sense  of  what  I  owe  to 
Christ),  if  there  ever  was  a  man  in  history  who 
had  ample  cause  to  be  a  pessimist,  I  think  it  was 
our  Saviour  Jesus  Christ.  Whatever  life  may  be 
for  you  and  me,  life  was  no  sweet  paradise  for 
Him  ;  and  if  all  experience  was  summed  up  in 
His  experience.  He  had  some  right  to  talk  of 
the  tragedy  of  life.  He  was  filled  with  the 
passion  to  love  and  to  serve  His  fellows,  yet 
they  cried  '  Crucify  Him,  crucify  Him !  Not 
this  man,  but  Barabbas.'  From  the  hour  of 
His  baptism,  right  along  all  His  ministry, 
there  lay  the  shadow  of  the  cross  to  come. 
A  tragedy  moves  with  lofty  march  towards 
calamity.  Christ  moved  with  supreme  nobility 
to  Calvary.  Shall  He  not  talk  of  the  tragedy  of 
life  ? 

Instead  of  that,  Christ  talked  about  His  joy  ; 
He  looked  facts  in  the  face  and  yet  was  joyful. 
Instead  of  that,  Christ  talked  about  His  peace; 
a  peace  that  passed  all  understanding  filled  His 


226  IS  LIFE  A  TRAGEDY  ? 

heart.  But,  most  significant  of  all,  He  turned  to 
men  and  said,  '  I  am  come  that  they  might  have 
life  and  might  have  it  more  abundantly.'  This, 
then,  was  the  very  object  of  Christ's  coming  ; 
that  men  might  enjoy  a  larger  measure  of  life. 
Had  life  been  a  tragedy  to  Jesus  Christ,  I  do 
not  think  He  would  have  wished  to  add  to  it. 
Buddha  looked  out  on  life  and  saw  its  sorrow  ; 
and  he  said,  '  Life  is  a  tragedy,  let  us  get  done 
with  it.'  But  Jesus  looked  out  on  life,  saw  all 
its  sorrow,  and  felt  it  with  an  intensity  Buddha 
never  knew,  and  yet  in  the  face  of  it  all  He 
dared  to  say,  '  I  am  come  that  the  world  might 
have  more  abundant  life.'  The  question  is,  can 
we  discover  the  sources  of  this  amazing  optimism 
of  Jesus  ?  I  wish  to  indicate  one  or  two  of  them 
and  so  close. 

Well,  in  the  first  place,  Christ  was  supremely 
certain  that  His  Father  was  present  and  working 
in  the  world.  Above  all  sorrow  and  sin,  and 
struggle  and  failure,  Christ  felt  the  pressure  of  a 
sovereign  power,  and  the  movement  of  the  in- 
finite love  of  heaven.  In  the  Old  Testament 
men  had  descried  God's  sovereignty,  but  it  was 
an    awful    and    tremendous    sovereignty.     With 


IS  LIFE  A  TRAGEDY  ?  227 

Jesus  it  has  become  a  much  more  gentle  attri- 
bute ;  it  clothes  the  grass  and  sees  the  sparrow 
fall.  You  remember  the  famous  line  of  Robert 
Browning,  '  God  *s  in  His  heaven,  all 's  right  with 
the  world  '  ?  That  was  one  source  of  the  optimism 
of  Browning  ;  but  the  optimism  of  Jesus  went  a 
great  deal  deeper.  It  was  the  fact  that  God  was 
in  His  earthy  so  that  the  ravens  were  fed  and  the 
lilies  were  adorned,  and  so  that  the  very  hairs 
of  a  man's  head  are  numbered — it  was  that  which 
gave  a  radiant  quietude  to  Christ. 

Then  Jesus  believed,  with  a  faith  that  was 
magnificent,  in  the  freedom  and  the  worth  of 
personality,  and  whenever  a  man  comes  to 
believe  in  that,  it  is  impossible  to  hold  that  life 
is  a  tragedy.  How  tenderly  and  skilfully  Jesus 
dealt  with  men  ! — it  is  clear  that  every  man  was  a 
new  problem  to  Him.  Were  manhood  forged  and 
fashioned  by  resistless  influences,  Christ  would  have 
dealt  with  men  upon  the  scale  of  the  hundred  ; 
but  Christ  never  dealt  upon  the  scale  of  hundreds, 
Christ  always  dealt  upon  the  scale  of  one.  That 
means  that  personality  is  real.  That  means  that 
every  life  is  a  new  thing.  That  means  that  in 
the  worst  there  is   some   possibility  that  can  be 


228  IS  LIFE  A  TRAGEDY? 

touched  by  love  and  become  conquering.  And 
it  was  that  faith  burning  in  the  heart  of  Jesus 
like  a  flame,  which  kept  Him  so  calm  and  hopeful 
in  the  world. 

Then  never  forget  that  Jesus  believed  in 
heaven  ;  He  launched  life  out  on  to  an  endless 
course.  There  may  be  many  tears  in  the  first 
act  of  the  play,  but  it  is  too  soon  yet  to  say 
it  is  a  tragedy.  Who  knows  but  that  the  master 
brain  which  planned  the  drama  may  be  going 
to  lead  the  action  into  sunlight  ?  I  can 
understand  a  man  being  a  pessimist,  if  he  really 
believes  that  death  is  the  end  of  all.  The  pes- 
simist would  have  a  strong  case  against  the 
Almighty,  if  the  individual  perished  at  the 
grave.  But  if  beyond  that  there  is  eternal  life, 
with  its  never-ending  expansion  of  the  soul,  I 
think  it  well  to  suspend  judgment  for  a  little. 
We  shall  not  lose  our  individuality  in  heaven — 
*  In  My  Father's  house  are  many  mansions.'  And 
we  shall  certainly  not  cease  to  work  ;  heaven 
is  the  joy  of  the  Lord,  and  the  Lord  is  never 
idle.  All  we  have  striven  to  be  shall  become 
possible.  All  that  we  tried  to  do  shall  meet  us 
there.     The  cravings  for  better  things  we  could 


IS  LIFE  A  TRAGEDY  ?  229 

not  realise,  the  longings  that  stirred  us  though 
never  a  man  knew  of  them,  shall  be  the  first 
angels  to  kiss  us  in  the  glory.  In  the  mighty 
conception  of  that  eternal  destiny,  time  ceased 
to  be  a  tragedy  for  Christ. 


TO   THE   HALF-HEARTED 

Whatsoever  ye  do,  do  it  heartily,  as  to  the  Lord. — Col.  iii.  23. 

I  WANT  you  to  note  how  our  text  is  introduced  ; 
it  has  a  very  suggestive  and  illuminative  con- 
text. '  Servants,  obey  in  all  things  your  masters 
according  to  the  flesh,'  that  is  verse  twenty-two ; 
and  then,  *  Whatsoever  ye  do,  do  it  heartily,  as 
to  the  Lord,'  that  is  verse  twenty-three.  Now 
the  servants  of  whom  Paul  speaks  in  verse  twenty - 
two  are  not  domestic  servants  in  our  sense.  They 
were  slaves,  bought  for  a  little  money  ;  the  pro- 
perty and  the  chattels  of  their  master.  Yet  even 
to  slaves,  who  got  no  wages  and  who  had  no 
rights,  clear  and  imperious  comes  the  command 
of  God,  '  Whatsoever  ye  do,  do  it  heartily.' 

Now  I  think  that  is  very  suggestive  for  to- 
day. I  can  hardly  talk  to  a  master-painter  or 
a  master-baker,  but  I  hear  complaints  about  the 
degeneracy  of  labour.  Men  are  not  faithful,  they 
have    to    be    watched    like    children  ;     the    loyal 


TO  THE  HALF-HEARTED        231 

service  of  an  older  day  is  dead.  So  say  the 
masters  ;  and  on  the  other  hand  the  men  say 
that  had  they  a  more  direct  interest  in  their  work, 
and  a  more  immediate  concern  in  its  prosperity, 
they  would  throw  themselves  into  it  with  doubled 
zeal.  Now  all  that  may  be  true.  But  the  point 
is  that  if  the  Bible  holds,  and  if  this  text  be  really 
the  word  of  God,  nothing  on  earth,  not  even  the 
worst  relationships  of  capital  and  labour,  can  ever 
excuse  half-hearted  work.  Your  hours  are  long  ? 
— so  were  those  of  the  Colossian  slaves.  Your 
pay  is  poor? — the  Colossian  slave  had  none. 
Your  mistress  is  tyrannical  and  mean  ? — but  the 
Colossian  mistress  lashed  her  servants.  Yet 
whatsoever  ye  do,  ye  slaves,  cries  Paul,  do  it  all 
heartily  as  to  the  Lord. 

I  want  you  to  note,  too,  that  this  text  was 
never  better  illustrated  than  in  the  life  of  the 
man  who  was  inspired  to  pen  it.  There  was  an 
enthusiasm  and  a  concentration  about  Paul,  which 
have  won  the  admiration  of  all  time.  *  One  thing 
I  do,  forgetting  the  things  that  are  behind,  I 
press  towards  the  mark,'  says  the  apostle  ;  and 
whatsoever  he  did,  he  did  it  heartily,  as  unto 
the  Lord  who   loved  him  so.     It   is   so   easy  to 


232        TO  THE  HALF-HEARTED 

preach  and  never  intend  to  practise.  It  is  so  hard 
to  practise  first,  and  then  to  preach.  It  gives 
a  wonderful  power  to  our  text,  and  charges  its 
mandate  with  redoubled  urgency,  when  we  re- 
member who  the  writer  was.  Men  have  brought 
many  charges  against  Paul,  but  I  do  not  think 
his  bitterest  enemy  has  ever  charged  him  with 
half-heartedness.  There  is  a  glow  and  fervour 
in  the  man  that  marks  in  an  instant  the  divine 
enthusiast.  Others  might  waver,  Paul  battled  to 
his  goal.  Others  might  yield,  Paul  was  invincible. 
And  had  you  seen  him  working  at  his  tentmaking, 
in  the  late  night  when  the  city  was  asleep,  you 
would  have  found  him  plying  the  tentmaker's 
needle,  and  singing,  I  doubt  not,  as  in  the  prison 
at  Philippi,  with  the  very  heartiness  and  zeal  that 
filled  his  preaching  of  Christ  crucified. 

It  is,  then,  of  this  whole-heartedness,  of  this 
fine  concentration  or  enthusiasm,  that  I  want  to 
speak  a  little  to-night.  And  I  should  like  to  say, 
by  way  of  caution,  that  true  enthusiasm  is  not  a 
noisy  thing.  Whenever  we  think  of  an  enthusi- 
astic crowd,  we  think  of  uproar,  tumult,  wild 
excitement.  And  I  grant  you  that  in  the  life  of 
congregated    thousands,    touched    into    unity    by 


TO  THE  HALF-HEARTED        233 

some  great  emotion,  there  seems  to  be  some  call 
for  loud  expression.  But  just  as  there  is  a  sorrow 
that  lies  too  deep  for  tears,  there  is  an  enthusiasm 
far  too  deep  for  words  ;  and  the  intense  purpose 
of  the  whole-hearted  man  is  never  noisy.  When 
the  children  of  Israel,  defeated  by  the  Philistines, 
sent  for  the  ark  of  God  into  the  camp,  do  you 
remember  how,  when  the  ark  appeared,  they 
shouted  till  the  earth  rang  and  rent  ?  Yet  spite 
of  that  effervescence  of  emotion  they  were  de- 
feated, and  the  ark  of  God  was  captured.  But 
Jesus,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  His  kingly  heart, 
set  His  face  steadfastly  to  go  to  Jerusalem  ;  and 
yet  He  would  not  strive  nor  cry  nor  lift  up  His 
voice  in  the  streets.  The  noisiest  are  generally 
shallow.  There  is  a  certain  silence,  as  of  an 
under-purpose,  wherever  a  man  is  working 
heartily. 

*  Prune  thou  thy  words,  thy  thoughts  control 
That  o'er  thee  swell  and  throng  ; 
They  shall  condense  within  thy  soul 
And  change  to  purpose  strong.* 

Whole-heartedness,  then,  is  never  a  noisy  virtue; 
and  I  have  thought  it  right  to  dwell  on  that, 
that  we  may  be  on  our  guard  against  its  counter- 


9.34       TO  THE  HALF-HEARTED 

feits.  But  if  it  be  not  noisy,  this  at  least  is  true 
of  it :  it  is  one  condition  of  the  best  success. 
The  chairman  of  the  Congregational  Union  of 
Scotland,  in  an  address  he  delivered  some  time 
ago  at  Glasgow,  told  us  that  a  friend  had  met 
him  lately,  and  said  to  him,  *  I  suppose  you 
have  heard  that  Mr.  So-and-so  has  failed  ? '  The 
chairman  had  not  heard  it.  *  Well  he  has,'  said 
his  friend,  '  and  little  wonder,  for  he  starved  his 
business.  He  did  not  even  put  himself  into  it/ 
He  did  not  put  himself  into  the  work ;  he  did 
not  do  it  heartily  as  to  the  Lord.  And  could  we 
trace  the  history  of  failure — that  long,  sad  story 
of  the  world — I  think  we  should  find  that  for 
one  who  went  to  the  wall  through  want  of  intel- 
lect, there  were  a  score  who  reached  that  pass 
through  want  of  heart.  To  concentrate,  as  all 
the  apostles  did  ;  to  have  the  resolute  enthusiasm 
of  Jesus,  that  spirit  has  something  congenial  to 
success  in  it ;  and  I  use  success  in  its  best  and 
noblest  senses,  some  of  which  the  world  might 
call  defeat. 

But  the  virtue  of  whole-heartedness  is  more  than 
that.  It  is  one  of  the  conditions  of  the  truest 
happiness.     There  comes  a  certain  joy  as  of  the 


TO  THE  HALF-HEARTED        235 

morning,  a  certain  zest  and  buoyancy  of  spirit, 
when  whatsoever  we  do  is  lone  heartily,  as  to 
the  Lord.  When  we  are  ha  f-hearted,  the  hours 
have  leaden  feet.  We  becon  e  fretful,  easily  pro- 
voked ;  the  very  grasshopper  becomes  a  burden. 
But  when,  subduing  feeling,  we  turn  with  our 
whole  energy  of  soul  to  grapple  with  our  duty  or 
with  our  cross,  it  is  wonderful  how  under  the  long 
shadows  we  hear  unexpectedly  a  sound  of  music. 
To  be  half-hearted  is  to  be  half-happy.  It  is  to 
live  in  a  lack-lustre  kind  of  way.  And  so  it  is 
to  live  in  an  un-Christlike  way,  it  is  to  know 
little  of  the  joy  of  Jesus.  Do  you  not  think  the 
joy  of  Jesus  Christ  was  linked,  far  down,  with 
His  whole-hearted  service  ?  He  never  could 
have  spoken  of  His  joy  but  for  His  unswerving 
fidelity  to  God.  And  when  at  last  upon  the 
cross  there  rang  out  the  loud,  glad  cry,  *  It  is 
finished,'  there  was  joy  in  it  because  the  stupen- 
dous work  of  saving  men  had  been  carried 
through  to  its  triumph  and  its  crown. 

And  there  can  be  little  question  that  the  more 
heartily  we  do  our  humble  duty,  the  more  v;c 
feel  we  are  doing  it  for  God.  It  is  one  of  the 
secrets  for   bringing   heaven   near  us,  for  feeling 


236        TO  THE  HALF-HEARTED 

the  Infinite  with  us  and  within  us,  to  be  whole- 
hearted in  the  present  task.  Thinkers  have  often 
noted  this  strange  fact:  that  great  enthusiasms 
tend  to  become  religious.  Let  a  man  be  mastered 
by  any  great  idea,  and  sooner  or  later  he  will  find 
the  shadow  of  God  on  it.  But  that  is  true  not 
of  great  enthusiasms  alone  ;  it  holds  of  whole- 
heartedness  in  every  sphere.  When  Luther  said, 
*  Laborare  est  orare  ' — to  labour  is  to  pray — you 
may  be  sure  that  that  great  soul  did  not  mean 
that  work  could  ever  take  the  place  of  prayer. 
He  knew  too  well  the  value  of  devotion,  and  the 
blessed  uplifting  of  the  quiet  hour  with  God,  ever 
to  think  that  toil  could  take  its  place.  But  just 
as  in  earnest  prayer  the  heavens  are  opened  to  us, 
and  we  are  led  into  the  presence  and  glory  of  the 
King,  so  in  our  earnest  and  whole-hearted  toil, 
clouds  scatter,  the  mists  of  feelings  and  passions 
are  dispelled,  and  we  are  led  into  a  peace  and 
strength  and  sweet  detachment  without  which  no 
man  shall  see  the  Lord.  It  is  in  that  sense  that 
to  labour  is  to  pray.  To  be  whole-hearted  is  to 
be  facing  heavenward.  And  the  great  loss  of  all 
half-hearted  men  and  women  is  this,  that  above 
the  dust,  and  the  stress  and  strain  of  life,  above 


TO  THE  HALF-HEARTED        237 

the  fret  and  weariness  of  things,  they  catch  no 
glimpse  of  the  eternal  purpose,  nor  of  the  love, 
nor  of  the  joy  of  God. 

Indeed,  if  that  old  saying  *  like  to  like '  be  true, 
the  men  who  are  half-hearted  must  be  blind. 
For  if  there  is  one  demonstrable  fact,  I  think  it 
is  this  :  we  are  the  creatures  of  a  whole-hearted 
God.  When  I  remember  the  thoroughness  of 
the  Creator's  workmanship  ;  when  I  think  of  the 
consummate  genius  and  care  that  He  has  lavished 
on  the  tiniest  weed  ;  when  I  recall  the  age-long 
discipline  that  was  preparing  the  world  for  Jesus 
Christ ;  I  feel  that  the  heart  of  God  is  in  His 
work.  And  I  feel,  too,  that  if  my  heart  is  not  in 
mine,  I  must  be  out  of  touch  with  the  Creator. 
The  gods  of  savages  are  generally  lazy,  because 
the  savages  themselves  are  lazy,  and  they  have 
spiritual  sense  enough  to  know  that  there  cannot 
be  communion  without  kinship.  But  our  God 
is  the  infinite  Creator  ;  the  master-builder,  the 
thorough  and  perfect  workman.  And  I  know 
not  how  a  half-hearted  servant  can  have  any 
kinship  with  a  whole-hearted  Lord.  O  brother, 
whatsoever  ye  do,  do  it  heartily,  that  you  may 
come  into  line  with  the  eternal.     It  is  the  pity  of 


238        TO  THE  HALF-HEARTED 

all  half-hearted  men  that  they  are  out  of  harmony 
with  God. 

One  other  word  on  our  text  and  I  have  done. 
I  want  you  to  note  how  the  writer  lays  his  hand 
on  the  real  secret  of  all  the  large  enthusiasms. 
He  centres  his  appeal  upon  a  person.  Had  Paul 
been  writing  in  some  quiet  academy,  the  text,  I 
dare  say,  might  have  read  like  this,  *  Whatsoever 
ye  do,  do  it  heartily,  for  that  is  the  road  to 
nobility  of  character '  ;  or  *  Whatsoever  ye  do, 
do  it  heartily,  for  the  best  work  is  always  done 
that  way.'  But  Paul  did  not  write  in  any  quiet 
academy.  Paul  wrote  for  the  masses.  Paul 
wrote  for  the  great  world.  And  he  knew  that 
nothing  abstract,  nothing  cold,  would  ever  inspire 
the  enthusiasm  of  thousands.  A  cause  must  be 
concentrated  in  some  powerful  name,  it  must 
live  in  the  flesh  and  blood  of  personality,  if  the 
hearts  of  the  many  are  ever  to  be  stirred,  and 
the  lives  of  the  many  are  ever  to  be  won.  So 
Paul,  with  the  true  instinct  of  universal  genius, 
gathered  all  abstract  arguments  for  zeal  into  the 
living  argument  of  Jesus.  And  whatsoever  ye 
do,  do  it  heartily,  as  what  ?  as  to  the  Lord. 

And  so  by  the  roundabout  road  of  this  address, 


TO  THE  HALF-HEARTED        239 

you  see  I  have  brought  you  back  to  the  feet  of 
Christ,  and  wherever  on  these  summer  evenings  we 
may  start  from,  I  trust  always  to  leave  you  there. 
I  believe  that  the  secret  of  all  noble  living  lies  in 
the  company  of  Jesus  Christ.  And  for  making 
us  earnest,  thorough,  quietly  resolute,  no  matter 
what  fickleness  or  cowardice  we  start  with, 
there  is  really  nothing  like  fellowship  with  Him. 
Do  you  want  to  be  truer  ?  Get  a  little  closer. 
Are  you  ashamed  of  your  half-heartedness  ? 
Get  nearer.  Then  back  to  your  work  again, 
alone  yet  not  alone  :  for  the  time  flies,  and 
eternity  is  near,  and  you  shall  pass  this  way  but 
once. 


THE  UNLIKELY  INSTRUMENTS 
OF  GOD 

BaCbylon  hath  been  a  golden  cup  in  the  Lord's  hand. — Jer.  11.  7. 

If  there  was  one  city  in  the  world  that  seemed  to 
be  independent,  it  was  that  city  of  Babylon.  It 
was  magnificent  in  its  equipments,  ruled  with 
consummate  ability,  strong  with  the  most  power- 
ful army  of  the  time.  It  worshipped  its  own 
gods,  and  was  contented  with  them ;  it  had 
nothing  but  scorn  for  the  poor  deities  of  Israel. 
Its  cup  was  golden,  there  was  no  doubt  of  it. 
There  was  not  a  boy  playing  about  its  avenues 
but  would  have  cried,  *  The  cup  of  our  city  hath 
been  a  golden  cup ! '  But  the  prophet,  inspired, 
saw  that  there  was  a  Hand  grasping  the  cup. 
'  Babylon  hath  been  a  golden  cup  in  the  Lord's 
hand.'  It  was  golden,  but  for  all  that  it  was 
God's.  It  was  He  who  had  raised  it  up  ;  it  was 
He  who  held  it ;  it  was  He  who  would  hurl  it, 
violently,  to  the  ground. 


UNLIKELY  INSTRUMENTS  OF  GOD   24J 

Babylon,  then,  for  all  its  power  and  all  its  in- 
dependence, was  an  instrument  of  God,  and  no 
one  can  deeply  study  the  word  of  God  without 
coming  to  perceive  the  awful  emphasis  that  it  lays 
on  the  fact  of  instrumentality.  The  Bible,  like 
Shakespeare,  and  yet  in  a  sense  far  from  Shake- 
speare's, seems  to  have  stamped  on  it  'All  the 
world 's  a  stage,  and  all  the  men  and  women 
merely  players.'  We  are  not  isolated  ;  we  are 
not  independent.  We  are  not  drifting,  rudder- 
less, on  shadowy  seas.  Somehow,  mysteriously, 
to  an  end  we  cannot  see,  and  under  a  Provi- 
dence that  never  errs,  we  all  are  instruments. 
Even  Babylon  is  a  golden  cup  in  the  Lord's 
hand. 

This  view  of  life  fills  all  the  Scripture,  and  if 
I  thought  we  really  knew  the  Scripture,  it  would 
be  enough  to  indicate  it  and  pass  on.  But  are 
we  truly  studying  the  Word  of  God  ?  Can  we 
name,  for  instance,  the  conqueror  of  whom  God 
said,  *  Thou  art  my  battleaxe  '  ?  Or  the  tyrant 
of  whom  God  said,  '  Thou  art  my  servant '  ? 
God  says  to  Cyrus,  Thou  art  my  battleaxe  ;  God 
says  to  Nebuchadnezzar,  Thou  art  my  servant. 
These  men  were  strangers  to  the  promises,  bow- 


242   UNLIKELY  INSTRUMENTS  OF  GOD 

ing  in  worship  to  the  gods  of  heathendom ;  yet 
Vthou  art  My  battleaxe,  Cyrus '  ;  '  thou  art  My 
servant '  —  they  were  all  the  instruments  of 
Almighty  God. 

I  learn,  then,  that  beyond  the  sphere  of  grace 
stretches  the  wide  sphere  of  instrumentality. 
Outside  the  hearts  that  have  been  touched  to 
hoHness  and  won  to  the  feet  of  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  God  has  ten  thousand  instruments  at 
work.  They  do  not  know  it — Babylon  did  not 
know  it.  Why  rage  the  heathen  and  imagine 
vain  things }  They  do  not  know  it — Cyrus  did 
not  know  it.  He  battled,  but  never  dreamed  he 
was  God's  battleaxe.  So  brains  are  scheming, 
statesmen  are  plotting,  armies  are  marching  and 
camping  in  the  world  ;  and  you  and  I,  taught  in 
the  things  of  Scripture,  are  going  to  feel  that 
God  is  in  it  all.  It  was  the  prophet's  outlook  on 
the  world.  We  want  the  prophet's  vision  in 
these  times.  We  are  summoned  to  think  that  all 
that  is  meant  by  Babylon  is  a  golden  cup  in  the 
Lord's  hand. 

Now  sometimes  the  blindest  eye  can  see  how 
exquisitely  the  instruments  of  God  are  fitted  to 
the  task  God  has  in  hand.     We  feel  that  infinite 


UNLIKELY  INSTRUMENTS  OF  GOD  243 

wisdom  is  at  work,  the  tool  has  been  chosen 
by  a  master-hand.  In  the  story  of  our  own 
country,  for  example,  go  back  for  a  moment 
to  Reformation  times,  and  remember  that 
Scotland  was  a  feudal  country,  a  land  where 
kinship  and  blood  and  birth  meant  everything. 
Then  think  of  the  exquisite  choice  of  God  in  the 
first  preacher  and  martyr  for  the  truth.  The 
blood  of  kings  was  in  the  veins  of  Patrick 
Hamilton  ;  the  greatest  in  the  land  were  kin  to 
him  ;  and  that  gave  an  impulse  to  the  gospel  of 
Jesus  Christ  that  would  have  been  wanting  had 
Hamilton  been  base-born.  There,  in  the  story 
of  our  own  dear  country,  is  an  example  of  the 
perfect  choice  of  God.  And  there  is  not  a  land, 
and  not  a  life,  but  could  give  signal  instances 
like  that. 

But  is  not  the  general  rule  the  very  opposite  ? 
I  think  it  is  the  reverse  that  strikes  us  most. 
Here  or  there  starts  up  some  striking  instance 
that  reveals  the  perfect  wisdom  of  God's  choices. 
But  far  more  often  we  are  arrested  differently  ; 
we  are  staggered  by  the  very  strangeness  of 
God's  instruments.  He  is  using  means  we  never 
thought  He  would  employ ;  He  is  using'  the  last 


244  UNLIKELY  INSTRUMENTS  OF  GOD 

men  we  should  have  dreamed  of.  We  are  face 
to  face  in  the  whole  sweep  of  history  with  the 
unlikely  instruments  of  God. 

Think,  for  example,  of  the  instrument  which 
He  used  to  keep  alive  the  knowledge  of  His  name. 
A  man  could  not  do  it,  it  required  a  nation  ; 
God's  name  is  too  great  for  one  man  to  hold  in 
trust;  but  of  all  the  unlikelv  nations  in  the  world, 
I  think  Israel  was  the  most  unlikely.  What ! 
shall  the  vivifying  truth  of  all  the  ages  be  com- 
mitted to  a  horde  of  slaves  in  Egypt  ?  Is  it 
these  men  gathering  the  stubble  yonder,  and 
crying  out  under  the  taskmaster's  lash — is  it  they 
who  are  to  guard  the  knowledge  of  God  that  is 
to  be  crowned  in  the  great  gift  of  a  Redeemer  ? 
To  a  human  eye  that  seems  the  worst  of  choices, 
and  yet  that  nation  was  the  chosen  of  God. 
Israel  became  the  instrument  of  Heaven.  It  was 
Israel  that  was  the  cradle  of  the  Christ.  Through 
wandering  and  war,  through  storm  and  sunshine, 
she  was  shaped  and  polished  for  most  exalted  use. 
Surely  a  most  unlikely  instrument,  but  for  all 
that  the  instrument  of  God. 

In  other  spheres,  too,  and  in  other  ways,  the 
same    thing    constantly    meets    us    in    the   Bible. 


UNLIKELY  INSTRUMENTS  OF  GOD  245 

Whenever  I  think  of  God's  unlikely  instruments, 
I  think  of  little  Samuel  in  the  temple.  You 
remember  the  message  which  God  had  to 
announce  ?  A  message  of  doom  on  Eli  and  his 
house.  A  dark,  dread  curse,  hurled  from  the 
eternal  throne  at  the  wicked  family  of  a  weakly 
father.  And  who  shall  God  choose  to  bear  that 
message  of  woe  ?  Some  heart  of  iron  ?  Some 
prophet  like  the  Baptist.'^  God  chose  a  little 
child  to  be  His  instrument.  Ah,  what  rebukes 
a  little  child  can  give  !  for  they  all  live  in  the 
Temple,  do  they  not  ?  What  sudden  reproaches 
in  their  artless  questionings  !  What  censures 
and  smitings  of  conscience  in  their  innocence  ! 
A  child  may  doom  us.  A  little  child  shall 
lead  us.  It  is  one  of  God's  unlikely  instru- 
ments. 

Now  if  Jesus  of  Nazareth  be  the  Son  of  God, 
I  shall  expect  to  find  Him  adopting  the  same 
procedure.  And  Paul,  in  a  passage  of  very  lofty 
eloquence,  has  preached  this  doctrine  of  unlikely 
choices.  For  God,  he  says  (and  he  is  thinking  of 
the  Gospel),  hath  chosen  the  foohsh  things  of  the 
world  to  confound  the  wise  ;  and  the  weak  things 
to  confound  those  which  are  mighty  ;    and  base 


246  UNLIKELY  INSTRUMENTS  OF  GOD 

things,  yea  the  things  that  are  not,  to  bring  to 
naught  the  things  that  are.  And  what  that 
means  I  cannot  grasp  or  gather,  unless  this  truth 
that  I  am  trying  to  bring  home  had  been  burned 
into  Paul's  mind  and  heart.  It  is  the  wonder  of 
heaven's  choice  of  instruments  for  winning  the 
triumphs  of  the  Saviour's  cause. 

And  tell  me,  has  not  the  world  wondered  at  it  ? 
It  has  been  the  perpetual  marvel  of  the  ages. 
I  surmise  from  His  very  methods  that  Christ 
was  Son  of  God,  whenever  I  think  of  His  choice 
of  the  disciples.  Twelve  men,  provincial  and 
unlettered — and  all  the  world  against  them  in 
the  battle.  The  poetry  of  Greece,  the  arms  of 
Rome,  the  institutions  that  had  grown  grey  with 
time,  the  thought  that  had  taken  centuries  to 
build,  passions  and  vices,  and  the  blight  of 
atheism — that  was  the  world,  and  against  a/l  the 
world,  Peter  and  Andrew,  and  James  and  John, 
and  Thomas.  It  was  a  strange  choice,  yet  it  was 
very  Godlike.  It  was  like  the  choice  of  the 
slaves  in  the  fields  of  Egypt ;  like  little  Samuel 
against  the  hierarchy.  Yet  by  such  men,  in- 
spired by  the  Holy  Ghost,  victories  were  won 
that  changed  the  world. 


UNLIKELY  INSTRUMENTS  OF  GOD  247 

That,  then,  is  the  doctrine  of  unlikely  instru- 
ments. Now  every  doctrine  has  its  practical 
bearings.  What,  then,  does  that  inexplicable 
feature  of  God's  choice  mean  for  you  and 
me  ? 

Well,  first  it  guards  us  against  putting  limits 
upon  God.  Who  shall  dare  say  what  powers 
may  not  be  used  by  heaven,  if  even  Babylon  be 
a  golden  cup  in  the  Lord's  hand  ^  We  are  so  apt 
to  have  contracted  views.  We  are  so  prone  to 
think  that  God  will  only  work  by  means  of 
instruments  we  should  have  chosen,  that  when  He 
contradicts  us,  and  works  in  other  ways,  we  are 
blind  to  the  presence  of  the  Divine  in  it.  Give  a 
wide  sweep  to  sovereignty.  Remember  that  His 
ways  are  not  as  ours.  You  think  that  He  is 
coming  in  the  whirlwind  ?  Hark  !  He  is  whis- 
pering in  the  still  small  voice.  You  say  that  the 
winnowing-fan  is  in  His  hand,  and  behold,  the 
bruised  reed  He  will  not  break.  That  is  the  first 
use  of  God's  unlikely  instruments.  It  makes  us 
watchful,  open-hearted,  very  humble.  We  must 
be  alive  to  possibilities  of  usefulness,  or  the 
chances  are  we  may  be  missing  God.  Babylon, 
mother  of  harlots  !   drunk  with  the  blood  of  the 


248   UNLIKELY  INSTRUMENTS  OF  GOD 

saints  !      Out  on  thee,  antichrist  !     Yet  Babylon 
hath  been  a  golden  cup  in  the  Lord's  hand. 

And  lastly,  it  should  make  us  very  strong 
when  we  are  called  to  any  little  service.  '  I  am 
not  fit  for  it  ;  I  am  the  last  man  in  the  world  for 
it ' — quite  right,  my  brother,  probably  you  are  ; 
but  so  was  Israel,  and  the  Lord  called  Israel  ;  and 
so  was  Samuel,  and  the  Lord  called  Samuel :  it  is 
a  kind  of  way  God  has  of  working.  The  men 
who  think  that  they  are  fit  for  anything  are  very 
seldom  fit  for  God's  work.  But  the  men  who 
cry,  as  Jeremiah  cried,  '  Ah,  Lord  God,  I  am  a 
child,  and  cannot  speak' — it  is  such  men  whose 
lips  are  touched  with  fire,  whose  hearts  are 
emboldened,  and  whose  way  is  opened.  For 
God  is  not  bent  on  glorifying  you  ;  God  is  bent 
on  glorifying  Jesus.  And  the  more  men  see  that 
the  power  is  all  of  Him  ;  the  more  men  feel, 
knowing  your  poor  equipment,  that  this  or  that 
is  the  doing  of  the  Lord,  the  greater  the  praise  to 
an  ascended  Saviour.  Let  all  the  earth  praise 
Him  !  Worthy  is  the  Lamb  that  was  slain  !  I 
take  it  that  that  is  the  deepest  of  all  reasons  for 
the  unlikely  instruments  of  God. 


THE  TOUCHSTONE  OF  FACT 

Have  ye  not  asked  them  that  go  by  the  way  ? — Job  xxi.  29. 

The  speaker  of  these  words  is  Job,  and  it  is  not 
difficult  to  understand  their  fitness.  Job  is  pro- 
testing against  the  shallow  theories  with  which  his 
friends  had  been  trying  to  console  him.  Their 
view  of  providence  was  a  singularly  simple  one. 
It  would  have  been  admirable,  had  it  only  been 
true.  It  was  just  that  if  a  man  is  wicked  he  can 
never  be  prosperous,  and  if  he  is  prosperous  he 
cannot  be  wicked.  Now  Job  had  held  that  view 
himself  once.  He  would  not  have  quarrelled  with 
it  before  his  suffering.  But  when  sorrow  after 
sorrow  fell  on  him,  till  his  life  was  ruined  and  all 
his  sky  was  dark,  he  was  forced  to  look  his  old 
theories  in  the  face.  He  learned  that  there  were 
more  mysteries  abroad  than  he  had  ever  dreamed 
of  in  his  old  philosophy.  He  saw  that  men  who 
disowned  and  dishonoured  God  could  be  happy  in 
their  life  and  untroubled  in  their  death.     And  he 

24» 


250     THE  TOUCHSTONE  OF  FACT 

knew  now  that  one  might  be  earnestly  devoted  to 
the  Highest,  and  yet  might  be  beaten  with  the 
most  cruel  blows.  And  so  he  turns  sharply  here 
to  his  three  friends,  who  were  trying  to  console 
him  with  these  discarded  theories.  Why  have  ye 
not  asked  them  that  go  by  the  way  :  the  men  who 
go  up  and  down  the  world  with  open  eyes  ?  They 
would  have  brought  you  home  a  store  of  facts 
that  would  have  shattered  your  views  of  things  to 
atoms.  Job  means  that  the  providential  theories 
of  his  three  friends  are  worthless,  because  they  are 
false  to  the  observed  facts  of  life. 

Two  thoughts,  then,  are  suggested  to  me  by 
this,  and  on  these  two  I  wish  to  dwell  for  a  little, 
(i)  The  temptation  to  give  little  answers  to  great 
questions.  (2)  The  duty  of  testing  our  theories 
by  facts. 

First,  then :  The  temptation  to  give  little 
answers  to  great  questions. 

There  are  some  questions  to  the  greatness  of 
which  we  are  blind,  till  they  enter  the  circle  of  our 
own  life-history — '  he  jests  at  scars  who  never  felt 
a  wound.'  It  was  the  wrecking  of  his  home  and 
the  ruin  of  his  hopes  that  set  Job  deeply  pondering 
upon   providence,   and   it  was   only   then,   in  the 


THE  TOUCHSTONE  OF  FACT      251 

hour  of  his  own  great  sorrow,  that  he  felt  how 
terrible  and  vast  was  the  problem.  He  had  been 
quite  contented  with  his  little  answers  once. 
When  the  sun  is  shining  it  is  sweet  to  have 
compact  theories.  But  from  the  moment  that  the 
finger  of  God  touched  him,  Job  never  gave,  and 
Job  never  accepted,  little  answers  to  great  ques- 
tions again.  The  problem  was  wider  than  he  had 
ever  thought.  God's  ways  were  more  intricate 
than  he  had  dreamed.  The  justice  of  heaven  in 
bestowing  reward  and  punishment  was  not  so 
evident  as  it  seemed  once.  The  little  ready-made 
answers  had  been  scattered,  and  Job  was  groping 
in  the  darkness  now.  It  was  exquisitely  painful, 
but  it  was  very  blessed.  It  was  the  call  of  God  to 
him  to  launch  into  the  deep.  Whatever  else  Job's 
suffering  did  for  him,  it  banished  his  little  answers 
to  great  questions. 

And  are  we  not  saved  from  shallowness,  as  Job 
was,  by  the  deeper  and  sterner  experience  of  life  ? 
There  is  nothing  hke  sorrow  for  testing  a  man's 
formulas,  and  if  they  are  insufficient,  for  scattering 
them.  Many  a  little  answer  has  been  banished, 
not  by  an  argument,  but  by  an  illness.  Many  a 
system  that  seemed  quite  impregnable  when  tried 


252     THE  TOUCHSTONE  OF  FACT 

and  tested  at  the  bar  of  logic,  has  simply  crumbled 
into  dust  and  ashes  when  the  coffin  was  open  and 
death  was  in  the  horne.  Have  ye  not  asked  them 
that  go  by  the  way  ?  They  have  been  through 
the  deeps,  and  might  have  told  you.  The  world 
is  too  mysterious  and  awful  to  be  explained  by  a 
few  pious  commonplaces.  Better  be  still,  and 
know  that  He  is  God.  Clouds  and  darkness  are 
around  His  throne.  Better  than  any  glib  answer 
to  the  problems,  is  to  say  with  Christ,  '  Father, 
Thy  will  be  done.' 

It  has  been  noted  as  one  of  the  great  qualities  of 
Shakespeare  that  he  never  yielded  to  this  subtle 
temptation.  It  is  no  idle  flattery  to  say  of  him, 
that  he  saw  life  steadily  and  saw  it  whole.  He 
sent  his  heart  out,  up  and  down  every  way  ;  he 
looked  on  all  that  men  had  dared  and  done  and 
suffered,  until  the  mysteries  of  life  and  love  and 
death  so  overpowered  him,  that  little  answers  died 
upon  his  lips.  *  The  thoughts  of  the  wisest,'  says 
the  author  of  Sesame  and  Lilies^  '  are  but  pertinent 
questions,'  and  I  know  no  'thoughts  of  which  that 
is  quite  so  true  as  the  thoughts  of  the  master- 
genius  of  our  literature.  We  come  to  Shakespeare 
as  the  three  friends  came  to  Job.     We  have  our 


THE  TOUCHSTONE  OF  FACT     253 

little  solutions  all  cut  and  dry.  And  Shakespeare 
turns  on  us,  as  Job  turned  on  the  three,  and  he 
says,  '  What !  have  ye  not  asked  them  that  go  by 
the  way  ? '  And  then  he  takes  us  out  into  life's 
way,  and  shows  us  such  heights,  such  depths,  such 
glories,  and  such  sorrows,  that  the  answers  we 
should  have  given  once  are  silenced  ;  it  is  all  far 
more  mysterious  than  we  dreamed. 

And  the  same  thing,  in  infinitely  nobler  ways, 
meets  me  in  the  life  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  I 
think  our  Lord  loved  every  little  thing,  with  the 
one  exception  of  a  little  answer.  Men  came  to 
Him  with  the  profoundest  questions,  about  their 
souls,  their  duty,  their  judgment,  or  their  heaven. 
What  impresses  me  is  that  the  profoundest 
question  always  elicited  a  profounder  answer. 
'  Who  is  my  neighbour  ? '  He  was  asked  that 
once ;  and  the  reply  was  the  parable  of  the 
Samaritan.  Has  not  neighbourliness  had  a  deeper 
meaning  ever  since  ?  *  Master,  who  did  sin,  this 
man  or  his  parents,  that  he  was  born  blind  ? ' 
And  the  reply  has  lifted  the  problem  to  new 
levels,  and  been  like  a  cordial  to  a  thousand 
sufferers.  *  Tell  us,'  said  the  disciples,  '  when 
shall  these  things  be  P  '     And  the  reply  of  Jesus 


254     THE  TOUCHSTONE  OF  FACT 

was  sublime — '  I  cannot.'  '  Of  that  day  and  that 
hour  knoweth  no  man,  no  not  the  angels  which 
are  in  heaven,  neither  the  Son,  but  the  Father.' 
It  is  the  sublimest  instance  in  all  history,  of  the 
refusal  to  give  a  little  answer. 

And  I  am  perfectly  certain  that  much  of  the 
gospel's  power  in  the  world  is  to  be  found  in  a 
similar  refusal.  If  the  gospel  of  Christ  appeals 
to  men  and  women,  and  if  its  appeal  has  been 
powerful  through  the  chance  and  change  of  time, 
one  secret  of  its  power  has  been  this,  that  it  has 
dared  to  give  great  answers  to  the  great  questions 
of  the  human  heart.  It  is  well  to  distrust  solutions 
that  solve  everything.  I  had  a  professor  in  my 
university  who  made  things  so  plain  that  we  were 
all  perplexed.  There  is  something  lacking  in 
every  creed  and  system  that  is  too  ready  with 
universal  answers.  But  the  gospel  has  no  easy 
explanations.  It  is  good  news,  because  it  is  great 
news.  It  says :  '  The  questions  of  the  soul  are 
mighty,  and  I  shall  furnish  them  with  mighty 
answers.'  You  say  to  it,  *  What  must  I  do  to 
be  saved  ^ '  And  does  it  bid  you  go  and  show 
some  little  kindnesses  ^  It  says,  '  Believe  on  the 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  thou  shalt  be  saved,'  and 


THE  TOUCHSTONE  OF  FACT     255 

belief  is  the  whole  manhood  roused  to  heroism. 
You  say  to  it,  *  What  about  my  sin  ? '  And 
does  it  bid  you  be  happy,  and  do  the  best  you 
can  ?  It  talks  of  Blood,  and  shows  you  a  Saviour 
crucified,  and  says,  '  Though  your  sin  be  as 
scarlet,  it  shall  be  white  as  snow ' — and  that 
appeals  to  the  very  depths  of  me.  Beware  of 
cheap  and  easy  substitutes  for  Christ.  They  will 
not  last,  they  do  not  satisfy.  Ask  those  who 
have  gone  by  the  way  whether  they  do.  I  have 
a  gospel  I  shall  never  be  ashamed  of,  for  it  scorns 
to  give  little  answers  to  great  questions. 

The  second  thought  suggested  by  our  text  is 
the  duty  of  testing  our  theories  by  facts. 

This  was  the  complaint  of  Job  against  his 
friends ;  their  views  did  not  square  with  the 
known  facts  of  life.  They  had  never  really 
tested  their  pet  theories  by  the  actual  experience 
of  men  and  women.  They  were  convinced  that 
if  a  man  were  righteous,  he  would  prosper.  And 
they  were  equally  convinced  that  when  a  man  was 
crushed  to  the  earth,  as  Job  was,  it  was  the  index 
that  heaven  was  angry  with  his  sin.  They  had 
been  trained  in  this  view  of  providential  dealing, 
and  it  had  never  occurred  to  them  to  question  it. 


256     THE  TOUCHSTONE  OF  FACT 

But  Job  had  found  that  their  theories  were  inade- 
quate. Taught  by  his  own  strange  case,  he  had 
looked  abroad,  and  had  grappled  boldly  with  the 
clear  facts  of  life.  And  now  he  turns  upon  his 
would-be  comforters,  and  charges  them  with 
shutting  their  eyes  to  facts.  '  You  have  never 
asked  those  who  go  by  the  way,'  he  says.  You 
have  never  brought  your  clear-cut  doctrine  to 
the  touchstone  of  the  experience  of  men.  Job 
had  been  wakened  to  the  great  duty  of  testing 
his  theories  by  facts. 

And  is  not  the  progress  of  Job  through  his 
great  agony  a  parable  of  the  progress  of  the 
human  race  .?  Like  Job's  three  friends,  we  all 
start  with  mistakes,  and  in  bringing  these  to  the 
touchstone  of  reality  lies  one  great  measure  of 
our  moral  advance.  The  savage  believes  that  the 
sun  moves  round  the  earth ;  and  when  the  thunder 
rolls,  he  thinks  the  gods  are  fighting.  The  little 
child  firmly  believes  in  fairies,  and  cannot  picture 
a  king  without  his  crown.  But  increase  of  know- 
ledge comes,  with  increase  of  sorrow ;  voices  begin 
to  whisper  to  the  heart,  ^Have  you  not  asked  them 
that  go  by  the  way  ? '  until  at  last,  in  that  widen- 
ing   experience,    the    errors    of    the     savage    are 


THE  TOUCHSTONE  OF  FACT     257 

detected,  and  the  dreams  that  were  childhood's 
music  are  dispelled.  It  was  a  very  painful  pro- 
gress for  poor  Job,  and  it  has  been  very  painful, 
too,  for  poor  humanity.  The  mightiest  task  of 
history  has  not  been  to  build  theories  ;  the 
mightiest  task  of  history  has  been  to  shatter 
them.  We  start  with  error.  We  start  with 
misconception.  We  start  with  views  of  God  that 
are  all  wrong.  And  only  slowly,  through  the 
pressure  of  sorrow,  through  the  struggle  of  ages, 
through  the  death  of  martyrs,  does  the  race,  like 
this  patriarch,  reach  these  roomy  thoughts  that 
can  be  tested  and  tried  by  every  fact. 

Think  of  this  duty  in  relation  to  happiness. 
We  have  all  our  dreams  of  happiness  in  life's 
glad  morning.  We  are  as  certain  that  we  know 
how  to  be  happy,  as  Job's  three  friends  were  that 
they  knew  God's  ways.  When  we  win  this^  when 
we  get  that,  we  shall  be  happy.  The  birds  will 
sing  then,  and  all  the  day  be  golden.  Have  ye 
not  asked  them  that  go  by  the  way  ?  They  could 
have  told  vou  that  all  that  the  world  can  give 
may  be  poured  into  your  lap  to  make  you  happy, 
and  yet  in  the  core  of  it  may  be  a  pain,  and  a 
heart    that    is    half   in    love    with    easeful    death. 

R 


258     THE  TOUCHSTONE  OF  FACT 

They  could  have  told  you  that  *  the  mind  is  its 
own  place  and  of  itself  can  make  a  heaven  of 
hell,  a  hell  of  heaven.'  They  could  have  told 
you  that  not  to  win  this  or  that,  but  to  be 
faithful,  loving,  gentle,  and  sincere,  is  the  one 
way  to  what  the  world 's  a-seeking. 

Think  of  this  duty  in  relation  to  moral 
responsibility.  There  are  many  influences  at 
work  to-day  to  lighten  that  burden  of  respon- 
sibility. We  have  learned  something  of  the 
evolution  of  conscience.  We  are  all  glamoured 
by  that  magic  word  heredity.  We  are  not  so 
sure  as  our  forefathers  were  of  the  foundations 
and  the  record  of  our  faith.  May  we  not, 
then,  take  a  little  liberty  ?  Is  sin  after  all  so 
exceeding  sinful  ^  Have  ye  not  asked  them  that  go 
by  the  way  ?  Let  them  tell  you  if  conscience  has 
ceased  to  be  a  torment.  Let  them  tell  you  if 
they  have  lost  nothing  by  their  sin.  Let  them 
unfold  the  story  of  their  lives,  at  the  best 
tarnished,  and  at  the  worst  degraded,  and  you 
will  thank  God  that  at  the  outset  of  manhood 
you  brought  your  theory  to  the  great  test  of 
facts. 

Think  of  this  duty  in  relation  to  religion.     I 


THE  TOUCHSTONE  OF  FACT      259 

know  what  many  young  folk  think  about  religion. 
It  is  all  well  enough  for  the  old  and  for  the 
sickly,  but  they  are  neither  old  nor  sickly  yet, 
thank  God.  They  are  not  going  to  be  gloomy 
and  long-faced  ;  they  want  more  exciting  joys 
than  the  prayer-meeting.  They  want  their 
liberty,  and  to  become  religious,  they  think,  is 
to  sap  the  life-blood  out  of  everything.  Have 
ye  not  asked  them  that  go  by  the  way?  They 
could  have  told  you  that  to  be  a  Christian  is 
freedom,  power,  manhood,  vision,  joy.  /  am  the 
way,  says  the  Master  whom  we  serve.  The  facts 
are  all  in  favour  of  Christ  Jesus. 


THE   GLORY  AND    THE   GATE 

And  Mordecai  came  again  to  the  king's  gate. — Esther  vi.  12. 

A  WORD  or  two  will  be  sufficient  to  recall  to  you 
this  most  fascinating  and  dramatic  story.  King 
Ahasuerus,  unable  to  sleep  one  night,  had  bidden 
his  attendants  read  to  him.  The  book  he  chose 
was  the  annals  of  his  kingdom,  and  the  passage 
on  which  the  reader  lighted  was  a  narrative  of  an 
attempt  on  the  king's  life,  which  had  been  baffled 
by  the  promptitude  of  Mordecai.  The  king  had 
known  nothing  of  the  plot ;  he  resolved  to  reward 
Mordecai  in  the  morning  ;  so  in  the  morning, 
summoning  in  Haman  his  grand-vizier,  Ahasuerus 
asked  him,  *  What  shall  be  done  unto  the  man 
whom  the  king  delighteth  to  honour  ?  '  Now 
Haman  had  an  overweening  conceit  of  himself, 
and  like  other  conceited  persons,  he  could  be  very 
stupid.  Surely  the  man  whom  the  king  wished 
to  honour  could  be  no  one  else  than  his  own 
important  self  ?     Haman  suggested  a  royal  pro- 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  GATE     261 

cession  through  the  town,  assured  that  he  would 
be  the  central  figure  in  it.  Then  the  king  told 
him  that  the  man  was  Mordecai,  and  if  there  was 
one  person  in  Persia  whom  Haman  hated,  that 
person  was  none  other  than  Mordecai.  And  the 
king  bade  Haman  lead  the  horse  by  the  bridle, 
and  cry  out  the  praises  of  Mordecai  through  the 
city.  It  was  a  very  agony  of  humiliation  for 
Haman  ;  but  the  word  of  the  king  would  brook 
no  contradiction.  So  Mordecai,  clothed  in  a  robe 
of  state,  and  mounted  on  a  richly  caparisoned 
palfrey  from  the  royal  mews,  went  in  procession 
through  the  streets  of  Shushan  ;  and  Haman,  at 
his  bridle-rein,  kept  crying  before  him,  'Thus 
shall  it  be  done  unto  the  man  whom  the  king 
delighteth  to  honour.' 

Now  whether  Mordecai  was  a  gate-keeper,  and 
had  some  official  post  at  the  palace-door ;  or 
whether  he  was  just  a  frequenter  of  that  neigh- 
bourhood where  the  Orientals  pass  so  many  of 
their  leisure  hours,  is  a  question  of  little  moment 
for  my  purpose.  All  I  desire  you  to  bear  in 
mind  is  this,  that  the  king's  gate  was  Mordecai's 
station.  It  was  here  that  he  was  commonly  to 
be  found.      It  was  his  familiar  and  ordinary  place. 


262  THE  GLORY  AND  THE  GATE 

Such  business  as  he  had  he  would  transact  there. 
There  he  would  exchange  news  with  his  friends. 
Then  suddenly  came  that  hour  of  exaltation.  He 
became  the  hero  of  ten  thousand  eyes.  There 
was  not  a  square  but  was  crowded  with  eager 
citizens,  there  was  not  a  window  nor  a  housetop 
but  was  thronged,  as  Mordecai  moved  forward 
through  the  city.  It  was  an  hour  of  thrilling 
and  unexampled  triumph  for  an  exiled  Jew  in  a 
barbarian  capital.  How  would  it  leave  him  ? 
Would  he  be  changed  and  spoiled  ?  Would  the 
strong  current  of  his  Jewish  heart  be  stemmed  ? 
y^nd  Mordecai  came  again  to  the  king's  gate.  Here 
was  his  place,  here  was  his  daily  post.  He  had 
not  forgotten  it  in  the  re-echoing  cheers.  The 
king  might  honour  him,  and  he  would  accept  the 
honour,  but  the  balance  of  his  life  must  not  be 
destroyed.  Mordecai  was  conspicuously  great — 
no  one  will  doubt  that  who  reads  this  little 
book  ;  but  he  was  never  greater  than  when,  after 
a  day  of  triumph,  he  came  again  to  the  king's 
gate. 

I  trust,  then,  that  you  begin  to  see  the  thought 
that  underlies  our  simple  text.  When  you  strip 
away  the  Oriental  trapping,  you  get  to  the  beating 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  GATE     263 

heart  of  all  humanity.  To  every  one  of  us  come 
hours  of  unsettlement,  as  there  came  this  tumult- 
uous day  to  Mordecai.  Sometimes  they  leap  on 
us  quite  unexpectedly  ;  sometimes  they  are  the 
crown  of  years  of  striving.  And  how  such  hours 
will  leave  us  when  they  pass  is  one  of  the  vital 
questions  of  all  life.  Shall  we  be  changed  ?  Will 
the  old  peace  be  gone  ?  Will  the  religion  that 
guided  us,  and  the  work  that  satisfied  us  ;  the 
hopes  that  cheered  us,  and  the  friendships  that 
eased  us — will  these  go  by  the  board  in  that 
tempestuous  hour  ?  I  pray  God  that  it  may  not 
be  so.  There  is  a  certain  stability  of  purpose 
that  is  absolutely  needful  for  all  moral  excellence. 
'  And  Mordecai  came  again  to  the  king's  gate.' 

I  wish  to  take  that  thought  suggested  by  our 
text,  and  to  apply  it  in  one  or  two  spheres  of  our 
experience.  And  first,  I  should  like  to  say  a  word 
on  holidays.  There  are  many  thousands  in  this 
city  to-night  who  have  just  returned  from  a  brief 
annual  holiday.^  There  is  not  a  glen  in  Scotland 
so  remote,  and  not  a  village  or  hamlet  so  secluded, 
but  has  had  some  son  or  daughter  home  from 
Glasgow.     The  mills  were  silent  ;  shipyards  were 

1  Preached  on  the  Sunday  after  the  Glasgow  Fair  Holidays. 


264  THE  GLORY  AND  THE  GATE 

strangely  still  ;  some  of  the  streets  had  quite  a 
Sabbath  quietude.  For  multitudes  the  routine 
was  broken,  and  the  drudgery  over  for  a  little 
time.  That  hard-won  liberty  is  very  sweet,  in 
the  warmth  of  summer-time,  and  when  the  days 
are  golden  ;  but  I  think  there  are  few  who  are 
not  unsettled  by  it,  when  the  hour  comes  for 
taking  up  work  again.  When  Mordecai  dis- 
mounted from  his  charger,  and  handed  back  the 
gorgeous  robes  he  had  worn,  I  dare  say  the  king's 
gate  looked  dustier  and  drearier  than  it  had 
seemed  before  the  hour  of  glory.  And  life  is  never 
more  dusty  and  more  dreary,  nor  is  the  routine  of 
toil  ever  more  irksome,  than  after  a  few  days 
when  all  the  bonds  are  broken,  and  when  we 
may  wander  at  our  own  sweet  will.  I  have 
known  men  who  would  never  take  a  holiday, 
they  felt  it  so  unsettled  and  upset  them.  That 
is  a  poor  way  of  slipping  through  life.  It  was 
not  Mordecai's,  and  it  should  not  be  ours.  By 
every  wave  that  breaks  upon  the  shore,  and  by 
every  hill  on  which  the  sunshine  rests,  by  the 
reviving  of  sweet  memories  of  childhood,  by  the 
renewing  of  old  and  dear  and  precious  ties,  God 
honours    us    more    royally    than     Mordecai     was 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  GATE     265 

honoured,  and  like  Mordecai,  we  should  accept 
it  all.  Then,  not  in  a  fretful  or  rebellious  spirit, 
but  cheerfully  and  bravely,  we  should  return  to 
our  task  and  to  our  cross,  as  Mordecai  came  to 
the  king's  gate. 

But  there  is  another  sphere  where  this  is  equally- 
important.  I  refer  to  the  trials  and  sorrows  with 
which  we  meet.  I  think  that  many  of  you  will 
understand  my  meaniiig  when  I  talk  of  the  un- 
settlem.ent  of  a  great  sorrow.  A  man  may  live 
in  the  sunshine  many  years,  until  he  almost  for- 
gets what  trouble  is.  Day  succeeds  day  in  an 
unbroken  happiness,  and  all  the  voices  in  the 
world  are  music.  Then  suddenly,  like  a  bolt 
out  of  the  blue,  comes  the  dread  moment  of 
which  we  never  dreamed.  Friendship  is  broken. 
There  is  disgrace  at  home.  Some  one  we  loved 
with  all  our  heart  is  dead.  Like  one  of  these 
storms  so  frequent  in  the  tropics,  that  with  in- 
credible swiftness  break  from  a  cloudless  sky, 
tempests  have  swept  on  many  a  heart  and  home. 
Such  times  are  times  of  very  strange  unsettlement. 
The  world  that  we  moved  in  seems  very  far  away. 
It  seems  incredible  that  only  yesterday  we  were 
talking  and  trafficking  like  other  men.      We  have 


266  THE  GLORY  AND  THE  GATE 

lived  so  intensely  and  have  borne  so  much,  that 
a  year  has  seemed  to  pass  us  in  a  day. 

Now  I  do  not  mean  even  to  suggest  that  one 
can  live  through  such  seasons  and  emerge  un- 
changed. A  stoical  philosopher  might  have  done 
it,  but  the  age  of  the  stoic  philosophers  is  gone. 
It  is  told  of  one  of  them  that  when  a  friend 
announced  to  him  the  death  of  his  only  son,  he 
said,  *  I  never  thought  I  had  begotten  an  immortal/ 
That  was  the  ideal  of  manly  courage  once  ;  it  is 
not  the  ideal  of  manly  courage  now.  Whatever 
else  the  gospel  of  Christ  has  done,  it  has  singularly 
deepened  the  affections.  Hearts  are  more  tender 
since  Jesus  lived  and  died,  affections  are  deeper, 
love  is  ennobled  infinitely.  And  hence  the 
bitterness  and  sorrow  of  our  tragic  hours  is 
deeper  than  any  that  the  pagan  knew.  How  shall 
we  bear  \t^  That  is  the  vital  question.  How 
shall  we  master  it,  that  it  do  not  overwhelm  us 
and  leave  us  in  the  barren  sorrow  of  despair  } 
I  know  no  other  answer  than  our  text  :  And 
Mordecai  came  again  to  the  king's  gate.  Quietly 
to  resume  the  interrupted  task,  faithfully  to  get 
back  to  daily  duty,  patiently  to  gather  up  the 
threads  again,   silently  to  bury  much  and  to  be 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  GATE     267 

brave  ;  it  is  in  that  return  to  common  life,  and  to 
the  common  services  that  God  demands  of  us, 
that  the  cross  and  the  burden  are  most  wisely 
borne.  Jesus,  having  been  tempted  in  the  wilder- 
ness, went  back  to  Galilee  to  teach  and  heal. 
Peter  and  John,  being  released  from  prison,  did 
not  fly  abroad  :  they  went  to  their  own  company. 
Mordecai  came  again  to  the  king's  gate. 

There  is  an  oft-quoted  passage  in  a  speech  by 
that  most  pure  and  single-hearted  statesman,  John 
Bright.  It  refers  to  the  period  when  Bright 
had  lost  his  young  wife,  and  was  plunged  into 
the  depths  of  sorrow.  His  life  seemed  to  be 
shattered  at  his  feet,  hope  had  departed,  all  his 
ambition  was  dead;  and  it  was  then  that  Cobden 
came  to  see  him.  And  Cobden  might  have 
merely  wept  with  him,  and  even  that  would  have 
been  sympathy.  Or  Cobden  might  have  proposed 
a  trip  through  Europe,  and  that,  too,  would  have 
been  very  kindly.  But  Cobden  did  a  great  deal 
better  than  that.  He  said,  *  Bright,  when  the 
first  paroxysm  of  grief  is  over,  we  shall  think  of 
the  wives  and  the  children  throughout  England, 
and  we  shall  go  out  and  speak  for  them,  and  we 
shall   go   out   and    fight   for  them,    and   we  shall 


268  THE  GLORY  AND  THE  GATE 

never  rest  till  the  corn-laws  are  repealed/  It  was 
a  summons  to  service,  a  call  to  action ;  and  the 
gallant  heart  began  to  beat  again.  It  may  be 
that  all  suffering  is  honour.  It  may  be  that  when 
a  man  is  decked  in  woe,  invisible  forms  precede 
him  through  the  streets,  crying  to  all  who  have 
the  ears  to  hear  :  '  Thus  shall  it  be  done  to  the 
man  whom  the  King  delighteth  to  honour.'  That 
may  be  so.  It  is  not  for  me  to  say.  God  wraps 
His  blessings  up  in  strange  disguises.  But  whether 
or  no,  you  will  not  forget  now,  that  Mordecai 
came  again  to  the  king's  gate. 

Then,  lastly,  I  want  to  take  our  text  and  use 
it  in  reference  to  the  spiritual  life. 

It  was  a  great  honour  that  was  done  to 
Mordecai.  It  was  peculiarly  consonant  to  Eastern 
ideas  of  splendour.  There  was  a  picturesqueness 
in  it,  and  a  wealth  of  colour,  that  were  very  dear 
to  the  Oriental  heart.  There  are  thousands  of 
men  and  women  in  the  East  to-night,  to  whom 
this  dramatic  and  barbaric  splendour  is  still  the 
epitome  of  exaltation.  They  would  think  that 
their  cup  was  running  over,  if  shah  or  sultan 
honoured  them  like  that.  Yet  what  a  cheap  and 
childish  honouring  it  was,  matched  with  the  favour 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  GATE     269 

of  our  King  of  kings  !  The  heart  that  is  crowned 
with  the  glory  of  the  gospel  is  a  thousand  times 
more  honoured  than  Mordecai.  His  was  an 
outward  glory,  ours  is  an  inward ;  it  is  the 
illumination  of  heart  and  will  and  conscience. 
His  was  a  passing  glory,  ours  is  a  permanent ; 
for  neither  height  nor  depth,  nor  life  nor  death, 
shall  separate  us  from  the  love  of  Christ.  T^hus 
shall  it  be  done  unto  the  man  whom  the  King 
delighteth  to  honour  :  he  shall  be  called  out  of 
bondage  into  spiritual  liberty  ;  he  shall  be  clad 
in  the  garments  of  recreated  manhood  ;  he  shall 
find  life  and  love  and  duty  rich  in  meaning  ;  he 
shall  move  heavenward  amid  a  cloud  of  witnesses. 
The  honour  of  Mordecai  was  remarkable,  but  the 
honour  of  the  humblest  Christian  far  surpasses  it. 
Have  you  received  that  honour  from  the 
King  ?  Then  this  shall  be  my  closing  word  to 
you.  Welcome  it  joyfully,  as  Mordecai  did,  and 
then  get  back  to  the  king's  gate  again.  It  were 
a  great  thing  to  be  a  mighty  preacher,  and  to  have 
thousands  swaying  at  your  word.  It  were  a  noble 
service  to  become  a  missionary,  and  preach  the 
gospel  of  Christ  in  darkest  Africa.  But  if  God 
has  got  work  like  that  in  store  for  you,  there  will 


270     THE  GLORY  AND  THE  GATE 

be  no  mistaking  the  summons  when  it  comes. 
Meantime  there  is  the  round  of  common  duty  ; 
there  is  the  daily  burden,  the  ordinary  Hfe.  Bring 
the  new  heart  to  bear  upon  all  that,  if  you  really 
want  to  copy  Mordecai.  Be  a  better  mother 
among  your  growing  children.  Be  a  more 
thoughtful  husband  ;  be  a  sweeter  wife.  Be  a 
more  considerate  daughter  in  the  home.  Be  a 
more  chivalrous  brother  to  your  sisters.  It  takes 
the  grace  of  God  to  do  the  least  thing  graciously, 
and  the  grace  of  God  is  given  us  for  that.  If 
there  is  any  one  here  who  has  heard  the  call  of 
God  to  go  and  serve  in  the  forefront  of  the 
battle :  then  go,  break  every  tie,  be  not  dis- 
obedient to  the  heavenly  vision  !  But  as  for  the 
rest  of  you — will  you  remember  that  Mordecai 
came  again  to  the  king's  gate  ? 


A   SOUL   TO    LET 

"When  the  unclean  spirit  is  gone  out  of  a  man,  he  walketh  through 
dry  places,  seeking  rest,  and  findeth  none. 

Then  he  saith,  I  will  return  into  my  house  from  whence  I  came 
out ;  and  when  he  is  come,  he  findeth  it  empty,  swept,  and  garnished. 
— Matt.  xii.  43-4. 

Our  Lord  had  a  quick  eye  for  moral  tragedies, 
and  in  the  pictorial  setting  of  these  two  verses  He 
has  delineated  one  of  the  saddest  of  them  all.  One 
marvels  at  the  sure  touch  of  Christ  in  dealing  with 
the  disasters  of  the  soul.  Men  felt  instinctively 
that  He  would  understand  them,  and  so  they  came 
to  Him  when  things  were  going  wrong.  And 
one  of  the  inexplicable  wonders  about  Jesus  is 
this  sure  insight  into  secret  failures.  When  we 
have  failed,  we  grasp  a  brother's  failure,  our 
insight  is  the  child  of  fellow-feeling.  There  are 
whole  ranks  of  tragedies  we  never  suspect,  just 
because  God  has  mercifully  guarded  us  from 
them.  But  Christ,  in  the  panoply  of  perfect 
manhood,  was  separated  from  every  taint  of  sin, 


272  A  SOUL  TO  LET 

and  yet  had  an  exquisite  understanding  of  the 
sinner.  It  is  something,  my  brother,  to  feel 
that  you  are  known.  Your  tragedy  is  not  so 
secret  as  you  thought.  You  are  haunted  with 
a  dull  sense  to-night,  that  unless  there  is  effort 
and  clearing  of  your  feet,  your  last  state  is  going 
to  be  worse  than  your  first ;  and  Christ  has 
spoken  on  that  theme  long  ago. 

Now  what  strikes  us  first  in  this  man  with  an 
unclean  spirit  is,  that  all  his  tragedy  was  under- 
ground. I  mean  by  that  that  his  very  nearest 
and  dearest  never  suspected  what  had  been  going 
on.  If  you  had  asked  some  villager  about  him, 
he  would  have  answered,  '  He  is  an  unclean  beast.' 
And  if  ten  years  later  you  had  asked  again,  you 
would  have  been  told  he  had  been  going  down- 
hill steadily.  Steadily,  gradually,  so  it  had  seemed 
to  everybody.  Always  a  little  worse,  a  little 
lower.  And  only  Christ  knew  that  that  view  was 
false — the  man  had  been  standing  at  the  gates  of 
freedom  once  !  He  had  played  the  man  against 
his  tyrannous  vices.  He  had  cast  them  out,  and 
cried  to  God  to  help  him.  He  had  breathed 
liberty,  and  tasted  the  joy  of  triumph,  and  known 
what  a  noble  thing  it  was   to  live  I     And  when 


A  SOUL  TO  LET  273 

the  ousted  tenants  came  back  again,  and  the  old 
disorder  began  to  reign  within,  none  knew  but 
Christ  the  struggle,  the  cry,  the  passion  to  be 
free,  of  the  man  whom  all  the  village  thought  a 
prisoner. 

Are  not  many  of  our  tragedies  underground  ? 
They  are  transacted  in  the  hidden  sphere.  There 
are  molten  fires  under  the  vines  of  Etna.  There 
are  hidden  graves  among  the  garden-flowers. 
And  we  sow  and  water  the  flowers  in  our  garden, 
just  to  conceal  the  sepulchre  that  is  there.  Who 
knows  how  you  have  dreamed,  how  you  have 
struggled? — and  men  look  at  you  and  call  you 
contented,  merry !  But  there  are  memories  of 
prayer  stored  in  your  heart,  and  of  days  when 
your  life  seemed  utterly  unworthy,  and  you  stood 
up  and  cast  the  devils  out.  And  they  are  all  back 
again  to-night,  and  never  a  soul  in  this  city  knows 
of  it,  except  yourself  and  Christ. 

But  there  is  another  feature  in  this  story  besides 
its  secrecy.  It  is  the  story  of  an  unused  triumph. 
This  man  did  not  fail  because  he  never  won  ; 
there  was  one  morning  when  his  heart  was  clean. 
That  was  his  day  of  victory,  and  the  promise 
of  final   conquest   was   in    that,   but    he   misused 


274  A  SOUL  TO  LET 

his  victory  and  was  lost.  One  of  the  saddest 
stories  ever  written  is  just  the  story  of  our  mis- 
managed triumphs.  It  is  our  little  victories  that 
curse  us,  because  we  have  neither  head  nor  heart 
to  manage  them.  We  are  so  apt  to  be  self-centred 
in  success  ;  so  ready  to  forget  how  weak  we  are ; 
so  prone  to  think  that  the  campaign  is  ours, 
because  in  one  skirmish  the  enemy  has  fled.  Then 
we  grow  careless,  we  do  not  walk  with  God  ; 
we  do  not  garrison  our  heart  against  assault ;  and 
in  an  hour  when  we  think  not  comes  the  old 
temptation,  strong,  subtle,  doubly  sweet  because 
forsworn,  and  we  are  taken  unawares  and  mastered, 
and  our  last  state  is  worse  than  our  first. 

I  have  often  thought,  on  reading  this  little 
parable,  of  the  wonderful  wisdom  of  Jesus  in  His 
victory.  I  have  often  thought  of  the  self-restraint 
of  Christ,  when  He  triumphed  over  sin  and  over 
death.  If  there  was  ever  a  triumph  in  the  history 
of  earth  used  for  the  lasting  blessing  of  mankind, 
it  was  the  triumph  of  Jesus  when  He  rose. 
There  was  a  sweet  restraint  in  resurrection  joy. 
There  was  no  spectacle  of  a  risen  Saviour  for  the 
crowd.  There  was  a  watchful  reserve,  a  choosing 
of  times   and    companies,  a  holy  management  of 


A  SOUL  TO  LET 


275 


the  resurrection  glory,  that  mark  the  risen 
Saviour  as  divine.  Even  Christ  was  guarded  in 
His  hour  of  triumph — how  much  more  guarded 
should  the  Christian  be  ?  This  man  cast  out  the 
unclean  spirit,  and  said  all 's  well.  And  his  last 
state  was  worse  than  his  first ! 

And  you  see  what  his  peculiar  danger  was  ? 
It  was  the  peril  of  the  empty  heart.  His  soul 
lay  vacant,  that  was  the  pity  of  it.  There  was 
room  for  the  ousted  devil  to  return.  Some  men 
are  tempted  because  their  hearts  are  full.  Life 
is  so  rich,  so  strong  in  a  thousand  interests,  there 
is  no  room  in  it  for  Christ  at  all.  But  many  are 
tempted  because  their  hearts  are  empty,  and  the 
old  ways  creep  back  again  to  stay.  It  is  not 
sufficient  to  expel  the  wrong.  We  must  fill  the 
emptied  heart  with  nobler  things.  A  tenantless 
heart — a  soul  that  is  to  let — is  a  standing  invita- 
tion to  the  devil. 

It  was  there  the  man  of  our  story  failed.  Have 
you  never  failed  just  at  that  point.'*  There 
was  struggle  with  evil,  and  momentary  triumph, 
there  was  an  empty  and  swept  and  garnished 
house.  And  that  was  something  ;  you  were  right 
proud  of  it,  after  the  moral  disorder  of  the  past. 


276  A  SOUL  TO  LET 

But  you  forgot  that  a  habit  expelled  is  not  by  any 
means  a  habit  slain.  You  forgot  that  new  in- 
terests must  fill  the  life  if  the  old  interests  are 
never  to  lodge  again.  It  was  because  no  ruling 
passion  had  been  begotten,  that  you  began  to 
hanker  for  the  old  again.  It  was  because  there 
was  no  new  enthusiasm,  no  worthier  tenants  to 
occupy  the  soul,  that  you  craved  for  the  ousted 
things  and  drew  them  back.  Had  the  empty 
house  been  filled  with  a  new  purpose,  controlled 
by  a  new  hand  and  nobler  will,  the  cast-out  spirit 
would  have  acknowledged  defeat,  and  felt  there 
was  no  room  in  that  soul  for  him.  It  was  the 
soul  to  let  that  did  the  harm. 

And  so  I  bring  you  face  to  face  with  the  great 
mystery  of  an  indwelling  Christ.  I  want  you  to 
set  that  truth  in  the  light  of  all  I  have  been  saying, 
until  you  see  how  practical  it  is.  These  deepest 
doctrines  of  the  word  of  God  were  never  meant 
to  be  speculative  vt^onders — it  is  when  we  live 
them,  we  find  how  real  they  are — and  it  is  Christ 
in  you  the  hope  of  glory,  that  saves  you  from  the 
peril  of  the  empty  heart.  The  gospel  does  not 
merely  come  to  you  and  say,  '  My  brother,  my 
sister,  you  must  give  up  that  sin.'     It  does  not 


A  SOUL  TO  LET  277 

bid  you  empty  your  heart  of  evil,  and  leave  it 
empty  and  garnished  to  the  end.  It  knows  the 
danger  of  a  soul  unoccupied  ;  the  certain  fall  of  a 
heart  without  a  tenant.  And  so  the  gospel  is 
prepared  to  give  you  something  far  better  than 
what  it  drives  away.  It  is  prepared  to  inhabit 
the  temple  of  your  heart  with  the  Holy  Spirit 
of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  Know  ye  not  that 
your  bodies  are  temples  of  the  Holy  Ghost  who 
dwelleth  in  you  P  That  is  the  glad  exchange 
the  gospel  makes.  In  place  of  the  unclean  spirit 
who  is  gone,  the  spirit  of  the  Lord  comes  in  to 
dwell. 

Now  where  the  spirit  of  the  Lord  is,  there  is 
liberty,  and  where  the  spirit  of  the  Lord  is,  there 
is  life.  And  it  is  that  new  Hberty  and  life  within 
the  heart  that  make  us  strong  when  old  things 
steal  back  again.  'I  can  do  all  things,'  cried 
the  apostle — not  through  a  barred  door  and  an 
empty  heart — *  I  can  do  all  things  through  Christ 
which  strengtheneth  me  ' ;  his  empty  and  swept 
and  garnished  heart  was  full.  O  brother,  you 
have  been  fighting  out  your  sin.  But  what  you 
want  is  a  new  enthusiasm  in  its  place.  And  I 
wish  tD  ask  you  seriously  and  simply,  have  you 


278  A  SOUL  TO  LET 

ever  made  room  for  Him  to  take  Him  in  ?  There 
is  love,  there  is  power,  there  is  liberty  in  Christ. 
Open  your  heart.  Receive  the  gift  of  God.  It 
is  in  the  bitter  hour  of  temptation  that  men  find 
the  worth  of  an  indwelling  Saviour. 

For  our  old  sins  are  hungering  to  get  back. 
That  truth  is  clearly  written  in  our  text.  They 
are  houseless  and  homeless,  and  restless  and  ill  at 
ease.  They  crave  their  old  shelter  in  our  lives 
again.  And  you  do  not  mean  to  give  it  to  them. 
No  !  you  are  done  with  the  past  for  ever  and  a 
day.  But  so  was  the  hero  of  our  text  to-night,  and 
yet  his  last  state  was  to  be  lost.  Your  cast-off 
vices  are  not  dead.  They  are  going  to  return  in 
subtle  ways.  Do  not  pride  yourself  on  a  swept  and 
garnished  house  ;  there  is  no  pledge  of  victory 
in  that.  But  there  is  in  a  heart  where  dwells  the 
love  of  Christ,  and  something  of  the  high  power 
of  His  passion.  It  is  in  Him  that  we  are  more 
than  conquerors.  It  is  in  Him  that  our  last  state 
shall  be  our  best. 

'Oh!   come  to  my  heart,  Lord  Jesus, 
There  is  room  in  my  heart  for  Thee.' 


THE  IRKSOMENESS  OF  RELIGION 

There  is  nothing  at  all,  beside  this  manna,  before  our  eyes. — 
Numb.  xi.  6. 

We  all  know  how  after  a  certain  time  the  chil- 
dren of  Israel  began  to  loathe  the  manna.  They 
remembered  the  rich  produce  of  their  Egyptian 
gardens,  and  began,  In  the  desert,  to  crave  for  it 
again.  The  manna  tasted  like  fresh  oil,  we  are 
told,  and  In  another  passage  we  read  that  It  was 
like  honey.  Be  sure  It  was  wholesome,  and 
quite  sufficiently  palatable.  If  It  came  from  God 
for  the  sustenance  of  His  children.  He  was  their 
Father,  and  when  they  asked  for  bread,  you  may 
be  certain  they  would  not  get  a  stone.  Yet  for 
all  that,  Israel  despised  the  manna.  Their  soul 
rejected  it,  it  was  light  food.  It  was  bread  from 
heaven,  says  the  psalmist — angels'  bread —  and  yet 
it  proved  distasteful  to  the  camp. 

Now  had  it  proved  distasteful  to  their  enemies, 
I  think  I  could  have   understood  it  better.      God 

279 


28o  THE  IRKSOMENESS  OF  RELIGION 

did  not  give  it  to  support  His  enemies,  He  gave 
it  for  the  sustaining  of  His  children.  Had  some 
Amalekite  boy  stolen  out  at  sunrise,  when  the 
dew  lay  heavy,  and  the  manna  on  the  dew,  and 
had  he  gathered  a  handful  of  the  substance, 
tempted  to  do  it  by  the  Israelite  children — had 
some  Amalekite  boy  done  that,  then  tasted  it, 
and  found  it  exceedingly  unpleasant  and  bitter,  I 
could  have  taken  that  as  the  punishment  of  God 
on  him  for  laying  his  hands  on  covenanted  mercies. 
But  the  Israelites  were  a  covenanted  people — out 
of  Egypt  have  I  called  My  son.  They  were  being 
led  about  by  the  Almighty  ;  they  were  on  God's 
highway  to  the  land  of  promise.  The  strange 
thing  is  that  it  was  they — and  not  God's  enemies 
— who  found  the  manna  such  a  distasteful  dish. 
It  was  the  children  of  Israel  who  felt  the  diet 
irksome,  and  the  children  of  Israel  were  the 
people  of  God. 

Now  that  leads  me  by  quite  a  competent 
spiritualising — for  did  not  Jesus  say  *I  am  the 
bread '  ? — to  dwell  on  a  very  urgent  matter,  I  mean 
the  irksomeness  inherent  in  religion.  I  am  not 
talking  of  hypocrites  to-night.  I  am  handling 
something    far   more   delicate   than   the   accepted 


THE  IRKSOMENESS  OF  RELIGION    281 

irksomeness  of  all  hypocrisy.  And  I  am  not 
talking  of  the  ungodly,  nor  of  the  men  who  have 
conceived  false  views  about  religion,  nor  of  the 
women  who  have  been  led  to  think  of  religion 
as  something  other  than  it  really  is.  All  these 
must  picture  religion  as  an  irksome  thing,  and 
it  is  perfectly  natural  that  they  should.  But  I 
am  talking  of  God's  professing  people,  as  the 
children  of  Israel  were  out  in  the  wilderness.  I 
am  speaking  to  those  who  have  really  been 
called  out  of  Egypt,  and  are  honestly  struggling 
heavenwards  through  the  desert.  And  I 
want  to  touch  upon  this  strange,  sad  fact,  that 
to  them  religion  should  often  be  an  irksome 
thing. 

Now  at  first  glance,  and  from  an  external  stand- 
point, it  might  seem  impossible  that  it  should  be 
so.  For  to  begin  with  (some  one  might  say  to 
me),  if  religion  is  anything  at  all,  it  must  be  the 
greatest  concern  in  human  life,  and  if  anything  be 
that,  it  cannot  be  irksome.  Yes,  religion  is  the 
chief  concern  in  life.  There  is  no  relationship  of 
man  to  man,  there  is  no  relationship  of  man  to 
society — there  is  nothing  on  earth  so  paramount 
and  vital  as  the  relationship  of  the  human  soul 


282    THE  IRKSOMENESS  OF  RELIGION 

to  God.  Yet  men  who  have  felt  all  that,  and  feel 
it  now — and  wherever  an  awakened  soul  is,  there 
it  is  felt — such  men  and  women,  whensoever 
they  reveal  their  souls,  confess  to  the  seasons, 
sometimes  unbroken  years,  when  religion  was  an 
irksome  thing  to  them. 

Or  again,  one  might  say  religion  cannot  be 
irksome  if  the  great  key-words  of  the  New 
Testament  be  true.  If  there  is  any  meaning  in 
these  recurring  notes  that  make  the  peculiar 
music  of  the  gospel,  it  is  surely  impossible  that  it 
be  irksome.  What  are  these  key-words  ?  One 
of  them  is  rest.  Can  there  ever  be  any  irksome- 
ness  in  rest?  And  another  is  joy — the  gospel 
rings  with  joy.  Can  real  joy  ever  grow  distasteful.? 
And  love,  that  is  another  gospel  note ;  and 
strength,  and  victory,  and  satisfaction.  If  these 
be  the  gains  and  the  heritage  of  Christians,  how 
can  religion  be  an  irksome  thing  ?  Now  all  these 
are  the  Christian's,  certainly.  There  is  rest,  and 
there  is  joy  and  love  on  the  narrow  path  which 
Jesus  Christ  hath  trodden.  But  for  all  that,  there 
are  few  travellers  on  that  path  who  have  not  felt 
the  irksomeness  of  their  religion. 

We  detect  it  sometimes  by  the  quiet  relief  we 


THE  IRKSOMENESS  OF  RELIGION    283 

feel  when  our  religious  exercises  are  concluded — 
a  certain  secret  sense  of  satisfaction  when  the 
prayer  is  got  over,  and  the  worship  done.  Not 
that  we  were  not  in  earnest  when  we  prayed  ;  we 
gave  our  heart  to  it,  it  was  no  empty  form.  Still 
it  required  an  effort  to  make  us  pray,  we  had  to 
drag  ourselves  by  sheer  will-power  to  the  throne, 
and  however  truly  and  heartily  we  pled  with  God 
and  laid  our  case  before  Him  in  petition,  when 
the  prayer  was  over  we  felt  a  kind  of  freedom, 
as  if  a  hard  duty  were  honourably  done.  Now 
prayer  is  the  very  climax  of  religion.  It  is  the 
soul  at  last  in  communion  with  its  God.  And  if 
we  loved  God  with  all  our  heart  and  soul,  it 
ought  to  be  an  exquisite  joy  to  speak  to  Him. 
Yet  it  is  not  always  that — perhaps  seldom  so. 
Read  the  biography  of  any  saint.  It  took  a 
certain  determination  and  doggedness,  a  quiet 
mastery  of  impulse  and  desire,  to  preserve  alive 
the  habit  of  devotion.  And  all  that  is  a  proof 
that  in  the  serious  life  there  is  something  irksome 
even  to  the  saint. 

We  detect  it  again  in  the  way  in  which  many 
try  to  put  service  in  the  place  of  personal  religion. 
I  thank  God  for  all  the  loyal  service  that  is  being 


284    THE  IRKSOMENESS  OF  RELIGION 

lavished  on  His  church  to-day.  The  body  of 
Christ  is  only  beginning  to  realise  that  it  has 
come  not  to  be  ministered  unto  but  to  minister. 
It  is  a  lofty  and  a  true  conception,  and  it  is 
kindling  the  church  into  undreamed-of  energy. 
But  when  we  see — and  if  we  have  eyes  we  see  it 
— how  many  noble  men  and  loyal  women  are  not 
keeping  the  balance  of  the  religious  life,  but 
gradually,  perhaps  unconsciously,  are  giving  less 
thought  to  personal  religion  and  more  and  more 
to  the  service  of  their  church — I  say  they  are 
yielding  to  one  of  the  subtlest  temptations  of  the 
age,  laying  a  false  accent  on  the  outward,  and  by 
yielding  to  the  echoing  cry  for  work,  shunning 
the  irksomeness  of  personal  piety.  But  to  shun 
it — what  is  that  but  to  confess  it  ?  To  acknow- 
ledge that  though  they  trust  they  are  Christ's, 
there  is  somewhat  distasteful  in  the  inward  life  ? 
And  then  to  make  up,  as  it  were,  for  the  lack 
of  soul-religion,  they  become  doubly  feverish  in 
outward  work. 

But  the  irksomeness  of  a  quiet  and  abiding 
piety  is  seen  above  all  in  the  love  of  religious 
excitement.  Excitement  and  novelty  in  religious 
things  could  have  no  charm  at  all  for  any  man,  if 


THE  IRKSOMENESS  OF  RELIGION     285 

he  were  truly  in  love  with  personal  religion,  and 
eager  above  all  for  a  closer  walk  with  God. 
When  a  man  is  in  love  with  his  own  quiet  fire- 
side, he  can  scarcely  be  tempted  to  go  abroad  of 
an  evening.  In  the  gracious  peace  of  his  sweet  if 
humble  home,  and  in  his  intercourse  with  the 
glorious  dead  through  books,  he  would  as  soon 
think  of  going  to  the  Pole  as  to  the  shallow 
excitement  of  a  third-rate  theatre.  Indeed, 
when  a  man  is  always  hurrying  there,  and  hither 
and  thither  to  every  showy  function,  we  may  be 
sure  that  there  is  not  much — what  shall  I  call  it  ? — 
not  much  heart-satisfaction  by  his  hearth.  And 
as  with  the  home,  so  is  it  with  the  soul.  It  is 
ill  at  ease  at  home,  and  wants  variety.  And 
all  the  love  of  excitement  and  of  novelty, 
and  the  foolish  running  to  any  new  attrac- 
tion, and  the  extraordinary  sale  of  childish 
books  ;  all  this,  with  the  growing  demand  for 
sensational  preaching — against  which  every  true 
preacher  will  set  his  face  like  a  flint — is  a  token 
of  how  irksome  a  thing  deep,  silent  piety  is. 
If  it  were  not  so  irksome,  there  would  be  no 
call  for  novelty. 

Now  I  wonder  if  wc  can  discern  the  grounds 


286    THE  IRKSOMENESS  OF  RELIGION 

of  this  element  of  irksomeness  in  heart-religion  ? 
Surely  the  first  and  the  deepest  is  just  this — 
religion  is  spiritual,  and  we  are  carnal.  At  the 
very  best,  we  are  but  bruised  reeds ;  at  our 
noblest,  we  are  but  smoking  flax.  And  religion, 
in  the  full  compass  of  her  powers,  has  her  dwell- 
ing '  above  the  smoke  and  stir  of  this  dim  spot.' 
She  handles  the  things  invisible  and  eternal,  she 
draws  her  warrants  from  remote  transactions ; 
she  speaks  of  powers  we  cannot  trace  or  measure, 
she  looks  with  a  queenly  scorn  on  sense  and 
time.  And  we  are  such  creatures  of  the  seen 
and  tangible,  groping  and  clambering  into  the 
clearer  air  with  such  infinite  efix)rt  and  recurrent 
failure  that  the  unchanging  calm  of  the  ideal  of 
holiness  strikes  on  us  ofttimes  as  a  barbed  thing. 
What  is  religion  but  to  walk  with  God? 
And  for  impurity  to  walk  with  purity,  and  sin 
with  holiness,  and  flesh  with  spirit — the  elements 
of  an  irksome  journey  are  all  there.  It  is 
because  we  are  far  from  Christlike  yet ;  it  is 
because  God  is  holiness  and  love  and  purity 
and  truth,  and  because  in  religion  we  must 
walk  with  God,  that  even  to  the  saint  it  has  its 
irksomeness. 


THE  IRKSOMEiNESS  OF  RELIGION    287 

Another  reason  for  that  same  feeHng  is  this, 
we  strive  and  seem  to  make  so  little  progress. 
We  do  not  advance,  as  an  army  does  to  battle. 
We  often  seem  just  to  be  marking  time.  There 
are  no  habits,  I  believe,  v^hich  hold  us  so  lightly- 
as  the  habits  of  piety  and  of  devotion.  There 
are  none  that  snap  more  easily  than  they — and 
the  old  life  is  back  v^ith  us  again.  A  man 
may  have  prayed  in  secret  through  a  v^inter,  yet 
when  summer  comes  the  habit  drops  away.  Or 
he  may  long  have  read  his  Bible  and  attended 
worship,  but  when  some  change  of  circumstances 
overtakes  him,  how  quickly  he  forgets  his 
honoured  custom  !  It  is  all  this  haunting  sense 
of  unreality,  this  lack  of  steady  progress  to  a 
goal ;  it  is  the  fact  that  with  every  morning 
as  it  comes  we  have  just  to  begin  the  whole 
thing  over  again — it  is  this,  a  kind  of  want  of 
continuity,  that  to  the  saintliest  may  make  reli- 
gion irksome. 

But  in  our  religion,  I  think  it  is  the  Cross  above 
all  else  that  does  it.  It  is  the  fact  that  in  the 
very  centre  there  hangs  the  pallid  figure  on  the 
tree.  In  every  mood  and  in  every  duty  of  the 
Christian  there  lies  the   shadow  of  the  cross  of 


288     THE  IRKSOMENESS  OF  RELIGION 

Christ.  What  is  discipleship  ? — take  up  thy 
cross  and  bear  it.  And  who  is  worthy  to  be  the 
follower  of  Jesus  ? — only  he  who  bears  his  cross. 
And  to  men  and  women  such  as  we  are,  cross- 
bearing  will  be  irksome  to  the  end.  In  other 
words,  it  is  the  abnegation,  it  is  the  humility  and 
self-denial,  it  is  the  renunciation  of  much  that 
is  sweet  to  us,  and  the  eye  fixed  on  a  dying 
and  bleeding  Saviour  ;  it  is  that^  when  life  is 
sweet  and  full  of  music,  and  calling  us  as  to 
the  freedom  of  a  bird,  that  may  keep  an  element 
of  irksomeness  in  all  following  of  the  blessed 
Lord. 

Now  I  have  been  preaching  to  myself  to-night. 
I  have  been  writing  down,  for  my  own  help  and 
comfort,  my  thoughts  on  a  subject  that  have  much 
troubled  me.  You  may  have  never  felt  religion 
irksome.  God  has  been  very  good  to  you  ;  praise 
Him  for  it.  But  if  you  have  felt  it,  and  if  you 
feel  it  now,  do  not  say  you  are  not  His,  and  do 
not  charge  yourself  with  being  a  hypocrite,  and 
above  all  do  not  give  in.  What  you  are  feeling, 
the  saints  of  God  have  felt.  They  too,  like  you, 
have  '  wrestled  on  towards  heaven  'gainst  storm 
and  wind  and  tide/     And  be  sure  that  when  you 


THE  IRKSOMENESS  OF  RELIGION    289 

lay  aside  this  body,  and  at  the  touch  of  death — 
most  kind  and  timely — the  preparation  for  eternity 
is  done,  be  sure  that  then,  in  the  presence  and 
love  of  God,  all  irksomeness  will  be  gone  for 
evermore. 


THE  PRE-REQUISITE  OF  VISION 

When  they  were  awake,  they  saw  His  glory. — Luke  ix.  32. 

It  is  very  strange  to  find  the  disciples  heavy  with 
sleep,  even  on  the  Mount  of  Transfiguration. 
One  would  have  thought  that  there,  if  anywhere, 
there  were  things  happening  that  would  have 
'  murdered  sleep/  The  glory  of  heaven  was 
shining  forth  from  Jesus,  like  sunshine  pouring 
itself  irresistibly  through  cloud ;  there  too,  not  in 
any  ghostly  apparition,  but  in  most  strange  reality, 
were  men  who  had  been  dead  for  centuries  ;  yet 
in  the  presence  of  such  scenes  as  these,  Peter  and 
James  and  John  were  very  sleepy.  Then  they 
awoke,  startled  we  know  not  how.  Gradually,  as 
a  swimmer  might  rise  to  the  surface  out  of  deep 
waters,  they  came  to  themselves,  and  remembered 
where  they  were.  And  then,  and  not  till  then, 
when  they  were  fully  awake,  the  gospel  tells  us 
that  they  saw  His  glory. 

You  see,  then,  that  one  of  the  penalties  of  living 

290 


THE  PRE-REQUISITE  OF  VISION    291 

sleepily,  is  that  we  miss  so  much  of  what  is 
happening.  The  mightiest  transactions  may  be 
forward,  and  heaven  be  stooping  down  to  touch 
the  mountain-tops,  but  we  shall  see  nothing  of  it 
all  if  we  be  drowsy.  The  latest  biographer  of 
Principal  Cairns,  in  his  most  satisfactory  and 
illuminative  little  volume,  gives  us  a  very  charm- 
ing account  of  Cairns's  schooldays.  He  tells  us 
that  very  early  in  the  morning,  when  the  house 
was  still,  Cairns  was  already  busy  with  his  books. 
His  brothers  were  fast  asleep,  so  was  his  father ; 
no  one  was  stirring  in  the  cottage  save  his  mother. 
She  was  already  hard  at  work  in  her  day's  toils, 
not  grudgingly,  but  perhaps  singing  as  she  worked. 
Now  Cairns  had  a  limitless  admiration  for  his 
mother ;  she  was  his  heroine  and  his  saint  right 
to  the  end.  And  his  biographer  suggests  that 
this  love  and  adoration  might  be  traced,  in  part, 
to  these  early  morning  hours.  The  cottage  was 
radiant  with  love  and  toil  and  sacrifice.  But  the 
others  were  heavy  with  sleep,  and  did  not  see 
it.  None  but  the  zealous  young  student  were 
awake ;  but  when  he  was  awake,  he  saw  her 
glory. 

Now  it  is  one  mark  of  every  great  awakening 


292    THE  PRE-REQUISITE  OF  VISION 

that  it  reveals  to  us  unexpected  glories.  When 
intellect  is  quickened  and  the  feelings  are  moved  ; 
when  the  will  is  reinforced  and  conscience 
purified,  the  world  immediately  ceases  to  be 
commonplace,  and  clothes  itself  in  unsuspected 
splendour.  You  might  play  the  noblest  music  to 
a  savage,  and  it  would  carry  little  meaning  to  his 
ear.  You  might  set  him  down  before  some 
magnificent  painting,  and  it  would  not  stir  one 
chord  in  all  his  being.  But  when  a  man  has 
breathed  the  spirit  of  the  West,  and  been  enriched 
by  its  heritage  of  feeling,  there  are  thoughts  that 
wander  off  into  eternity  in  every  masterpiece  of 
art — we  have  been  wakened,  and  we  see  the 
glory.  Do  you  think  it  is  an  idle  figure  of 
speech  when  we  talk  of  the  long  sleep  of  the 
Middle  Ages  ?  Do  you  imagine  that  we  are  only 
using  metaphor  when  we  describe  the  Reforma- 
tion as  an  awakening?  I  hardly  think  that  we 
could  speak  more  literally  than  when  we  use  such 
simple  terms  as  these.  There  is  always  a  world 
of  glorious  environment;  but  men  were  heavy 
with  sleep  once,  and  they  missed  it.  It  was  not 
till  powers  and  faculties  were  quickened  in  the 
great  movements  of  Renaissance  and  Reform,  that 


THE  PRE-REQUISITE  OF  VISION    293 

the  clouds  scattered  and  the  blue  heaven  was  seen. 
And  if  to-day  there  is  larger  meaning  in  our  life, 
if  nature  is  richer  in  spiritual  significance,  if  faith 
and  hope  and  love  are  far  more  worthy,  if  religion 
is  deeper  and  God  more  real  and  tender  ;  it  can 
all  be  interpreted  in  the  language  of  the  text  : 
When  they  were  fully  awake,  they  saw  the 
glory. 

I  think,  too,  that  in  spiritual  awakening  we 
find  that  the  suggestion  of  our  text  arrests  us. 
There  are  many  glories  which  we  never  see,  till  the 
call  of  our  Lord  has  bidden  us  awake.  There  is 
the  Bible,  for  instance  ;  think  of  that  a  moment. 
We  have  been  taught  out  of  its  pages  since  we 
were  little  children,  and  we  can  never  be 
grateful  enough  for  this  so  priceless  book,  that  is 
alive  with  interest  even  to  the  child.  It  is  the 
noblest  of  all  noble  literature.  It  is  fearless,  and 
frank,  and  eloquent,  and  simple.  It  faces  life's 
depths,  yet  it  is  always  hopeful.  It  fronts  life's 
tragedies,  yet  it  is  always  calm.  A  man  may 
refuse  to  believe  it  is  inspired,  yet  may  acknow- 
ledge what  a  debt  he  owes  it.  But  it  is  one  thing 
to  feel  the  Bible's  charm,  and  it  is  another  thing 
to  see  the  Bible's  glory  ;   and   the  glory   of  the 


2  94    THE  PRE-REQUISITE  OF  VISION 

Bible  is  a  hidden  glory>  until  a  man  is  spiritually 
awake.  It  is  only  then  that  it  speaks  as  friend 
with  friend,  and  that  it  separates  itself  from 
common  voices.  It  is  only  then  that  it  reaches  us 
apart,  with  a  message  and  a  music  no  one  else 
shall  hear.  It  is  only  then,  under  the  pressure  of 
sorrow,  or  in  the  darkness  of  failure,  or  beneath 
the  shadow  of  warring  duties,  that  it  touches  us 
as  if  we  were  alone  in  the  whole  world.  That  is 
the  glory  of  love,  and  of  love's  literature.  And 
we  know  much  before  we  wake,  but  never  that. 
It  is  as  true  of  us  as  of  the  three  upon  the 
mountain — when  they  were  fully  awake,  they  saw 
the  glory. 

Or  think  again  of  the  life  of  our  brother  man. 
Until  we  are  awakened  by  the  gospel,  I  question 
if  we  ever  see  the  full  glory  there.  To  most  of 
us  the  life  of  thousands  of  our  fellows  seems  a 
most  dull  and  commonplace  affair.  There  is  little 
radiance  in  it,  and  little  hope ;  it  is  as  cheerless  as 
a  grey  sea  in  late  November.  But  can  imagination 
not  do  anything  ?  Certainly,  imagination  can 
work  wonders.  If  you  want  to  see  the  charm  of 
common  lives  ;  the  passion,  the  tenderness,  the 
joy,  the  strength  of  the  persons  whom  you  and  I 


THE  PRE-REQUISITE  OR  VISION    295 

would  brush  past  heedlessly,  just  read  the  Bleak 
House  of  Charles  Dickens  again. 

*  The  poem  hangs  on  the  berry-bush 
Till  comes  the  poet's  eye; 
And  the  whole  street  is  a  masquerade 
When  Shakespeare  passes  by.' 

All  that  is  true.  And  all  that  should  make  us 
very  grateful  to  God  for  the  gift  of  every  real 
novelist  and  dramatist.  But  underneath  all  life 
of  passion  and  affection  there  are  spiritual  possi- 
bilities for  the  meanest,  and  not  till  the  world 
is  wakened  by  the  gospel  are  the  hidden 
glories  of  humanity  revealed.  Why  are  we 
carrying  on  home-mission  work  ?  Is  it  merely 
to  employ  our  leisure  energies  }  It  is  because 
we  have  been  wakened,  and  have  seen  the  glory 
of  the  poorest  brother  in  the  meanest  street. 
And  why  have  we  missionaries  in  India  and  in 
Africa  }  Is  it  because  we  fear  the  heathen  will 
be  damned  for  not  having  trusted  One  of  whom 
they  never  heard }  It  is  because  we  have 
been  wakened,  and  have  seen  the  glory  of  every 
heart  that  beats  in  darkest  Africa.  Under  all 
vice  there  is  still  something  true  ;  deeper  than 
the    deepest    degradation,   there    is    still    a    hope 


296    THE  PRE-REQUISI  TE  OF  VISION 

unspeakable  and  full  of  glory  ;  in  the  barren 
desert  the  rose  may  blossom  yet,  and  Jesus  Christ 
has  wakened  us  to  that.  There  was  the  ring  of 
the  true  faith  about  Chalmers  of  New  Guinea 
when,  writing  of  a  cannibal  chief  of  that  dark 
island,  he  refers  to  him  as  '  that  grand  old 
gentleman.' 

And  the  same  thing  is  true  of  our  dear  Lord 
Himself.  We  must  be  spiritually  wakened  if  we 
would  see  His  glory.  It  is  only  then  that  He 
reveals  Himself,  in  the  full  and  glorious  compass 
of  His  grace.  When  a  man  approaches  Christ 
Jesus  intellectually,  he  is  humbled  and  stirred  by 
that  wealth  of  spontaneous  wisdom.  And  when 
a  man  approaches  Christ  emotionally,  the  sym- 
pathy of  that  matchless  heart  may  overpower 
him.  But  the  brightest  intellect  and  the  most 
delicate  emotions  may  centre  themselves  for  a 
lifetime  on  the  Saviour,  yet  the  glory  of  the 
Saviour  may  escape  them  ;  it  is  always  difficult 
for  the  man  who  is  spiritually  dead  to  understand 
the  dominion  of  Christ  in  history.  But  the  hour 
comes  when  a  man  is  spiritually  roused.  Out  of 
the  infinite,  the  hand  of  God  hath  touched  him. 
The  old  content  is  gone  like  some  sweet  dream. 


THE  PRE-REQUISITE  OF  VISION    297 

He  realises  that  things  seen  are  temporal.  He 
is  not  satisfied  any  more,  nor  very  happy  ;  sin 
becomes  real,  the  eternal  is  full  of  voices.  And 
it  is  then,  in  a  vision  fairer  than  any  dawn,  that 
the  glory  of  Christ  first  breaks  upon  the  soul. 
There  is  a  depth  of  meaning  in  His  wisdom 
now,  that  the  mere  intellect  was  powerless  to 
grasp.  There  is  a  tenderness  and  a  strength  in 
His  compassion  that  mere  emotion  never  under- 
stood. There  is  a  value  and  a  nearness  in  His 
death  that  once  would  have  been  quite  inexplic- 
able. When  they  were  awake,  they  saw  His 
glory. 

But  to  pass  on  from  that  great  theme  of 
spiritual  wakening,  there  is  one  feature  of  experi- 
ence which  I  must  not  omit.  It  is  part  of  God's 
discipline  with  us  in  the  years,  that  the  years 
should  waken  us  to  see  glories  which  once  we 
missed.  The  value  of  our  college  education  is 
not  the  amount  of  raw  knowledge  which  it  gives 
us.  There  are  men  whose  minds  are  amazingly 
full  of  facts,  yet  no  one  would  call  them  educated 
men.  And  there  are  others  who  have  compara- 
tively few  facts  at  their  command,  yet  you  instinc- 
tively recognise  that  they  are  educated.      For  true 


298     THE  PRE-REQUISITE  OF  VISION 

education  is  not  meant  to  store  us  ;  true  education 
is  intended  to  awaken  us ;  and  the  joy  of  the 
truly  educated  man  is  no  poor  pride  in  his 
superior  knowledge  :  it  is  that  he  has  been  so 
wakened  that  in  every  realm  and  sphere  he  can 
see  glories  unobserved  before. 

Now  if  this  be  true  of  our  schools  and  of  our 
colleges,  do  you  not  think  it  holds  also  of  God's 
education  ?  It  is  a  truth  we  should  ever  keep 
clear  before  us.  There  are  mysteries  in  life's 
discipline  we  cannot  fathom ;  there  are  strange 
happenings  that  have  baffled  every  thinker ;  but 
at  least  we  know  that  the  change  and  the  stress 
of  years,  and  the  joys  they  bring  with  them,  and 
their  losses  and  gains,  waken  us,  perhaps  rudely, 
out  of  many  a  dream,  and  show  us  glories  which 
once  we  never  saw.  I  do  not  think  that  the  man 
who  has  never  been  poor  will  be  quick  to  see 
the  heroisms  of  quiet  poverty.  I  do  not  think 
that  he  who  is  always  strong  can  ever  appreciate 
at  its  full  moral  value  the  dauntless  cheerfulness 
of  the  racked  invalid.  You  must  have  been 
tempted  as  your  brother  is,  to  know  his  magni- 
ficent courage  in  resisting.  To  the  man  who 
never  loved,  love  is  inscrutable.    So  the  Almighty, 


THE  PRE-REQUISITE  OF  VISION    299 

in  whose  hands  we  are,  disciplines  us  through  the 
deepening  of  the  years,  wakes  us  by  change,  by 
love,  by  sorrow,  by  temptation,  until  the  veils 
are  rent  that  shrouded  other  hearts.  And  we 
say  of  humanity  what  these  three  said  of  Jesus  : 
'  When  we  were  awake,  we  saw  His  glory.* 

But  the  deepest  interpretation  of  the  text  is 
not  of  this  world.  It  will  come  to  its  crown  of 
meaning  in  eternity.  It  is  then  that  out  of  the 
sleep  of  life  we  shall  awaken,  and  we  shall  be 
satisfied  when  we  awake.  We  shall  see  the  glory 
of  goodness  and  of  truth  then,  as  we  never  saw 
it  in  our  brightest  hours.  We  shall  see  the  glory 
of  having  kept  on  struggling,  when  every  voice 
was  bidding  us  give  in.  We  shall  see  the  glory 
of  the  love  we  once  despised,  of  insignificant  and 
unrewarded  lives,  of  the  silence  that  shielded  and 
the  speech  that  cheered.  We  shall  see  the  glory 
of  Jesus  and  of  God.  We  are  heavy  with  sleep 
here,  even  at  our  best.  It  is  going  to  take  the 
touch  of  death  to  waken  us.  But  when  we 
waken  in  the  eternal  morning,  I  think  we  shall 
truly  see  the  glory  then. 


THE  NOTE  OF  THE  HEROIC 

His  eyes  were  as  a  flame  of  fire. — Rev.  i.  14. 

It  is  notable  that  in  this  vision  of  the  ascended 
Saviour,  the  eyes  should  have  been  as  it  were  a 
flame  of  fire.  That  is  hardly  the  characteristic 
we  should  have  expected  after  hearing  of  hair 
that  was  as  white  as  snow.  The  snow-white  hair 
suggests  to  us  venerable  age ;  it  hints  at  the 
passing  of  unnumbered  years,  with  the  inevitable 
quenching  of  the  fire  of  youth  ;  but  when  we 
should  look  for  eyes  that  were  very  gentle,  or 
that  were  filled  with  the  wise  tenderness  of  age, 
we  find  that  His  eyes  were  as  a  flame  of  fire. 
Now  that  contrast  at  once  suggests  to  me  this 
thought.  In  Christ  there  is  not  only  a  beauty  as 
of  silvered  age  ;  there  is  also  a  fire  and  a  heroism 
as  of  youth.  And  it  is  on  that  note  of  the  heroic 
that  I  wish  to  speak  to-night. 

I    ask  you,   as   we    begin    to   think   upon    the 


THE  NOTE  OF  THE  HEROIC     301 

matter,  to  bear  in  mind  one  very  simple  dis- 
tinction. It  is  that  the  thoughts  that  cluster 
round  the  heroic  are  not  exactly  those  which  the 
word  hero  suggests.  A  hero  is  just  the  embodiment 
of  our  ideal.  He  is  the  man  who  represents  to 
us  all  that  we  dream  of,  whom  we  can  clothe  in 
every  virtue  and  grace  we  reckon  fine.  There  is 
nothing  fixed  or  defined,  then,  in  the  meaning  of 
hero;  its  import  is  relative  to  the  qualities  we 
admire.  The  hero  of  an  unscrupulous  man  of 
business  is  often  a  man  who  is  only  more  un- 
scrupulous. The  heroine  of  the  woman  of  the 
world  is  sometimes  only  a  more  worldly  woman. 
In  a  hero  there  may  be  absolutely  nothing  heroic  ; 
if  we  are  degraded,  so  shall  our  ideals  be.  But 
heroism  is  always  lofty  and  disinterested;  it  is 
courage  touched  into  self-forgetfulness  ;  it  is 
enthusiasm  with  the  crown  of  sacrifice  upon  its 
brow ;  it  is  the  genius  of  the  heart  defying 
prudence.  A  hero  may  have  very  evil  eyes  ;  but 
wherever  the  true  heroic  is,  there  the  eyes  are  as 
a  flame  of  fire. 

Now  as  civilisation  advances  and  grows  more 
complex,  there  is  one  kind  of  heroism  that  is  less 
and  less  demanded.      It  is  the  heroism  that  may 


302     THE  NOTE  OF  THE  HEROIC 

be  described  as  physical,  and  that  has  for  its  basis 
what  we  call  animal  courage.  In  a  rough  and 
lawless  and  unsettled  time,  it  might  benefit  a  man 
little  to  be  gentle.  The  man  who  would  live 
must  have  a  ready  sword,  and  wield  it  valiantly, 
sometimes,  for  wife  and  children.  Such  times, 
then,  in  a  nation's  history — and  we  have  had  long 
periods  like  that  in  Scotland — are  times  that  call 
out  and  develop  physical  heroism.  It  is  always 
an  early  epoch  in  a  country  that  is  known  by 
the  name  of  its  heroic  age.  But  as  civilisation 
advances,  life  takes  other  aspects.  The  relations 
of  man  to  man  become  more  intricate.  The 
sword  that  once  was  carried  in  the  belt  is  handed 
over  to  be  wielded  by  the  law  ;  life  becomes 
ordered,  settled,  and  secure.  There  is  con- 
summate need  to  be  intelligent  and  tactful ;  there 
is  less  need  now  than  once  for  physical  heroism. 
We  are  never  wakened  of  a  morning  now  to  hear 
that  the  Highlands  are  '  out/  and  are  marching 
on  the  city.  And  that  implies  that  as  civilisation 
grows,  and  intercourse  increases,  and  law  becomes 
supreme  —  and  may  I  add  as  anaesthetics  like 
chloroform  are  discovered,  that  remove  the 
necessity    of  facing    up    to    pain — the    accent    is 


THE  NOTE  OF  THE  HEROIC     303 

shifted     from    merely   physical    heroism,    and    is 
inevitably  placed  on  other  virtues. 

But  as  the  need  of  physical  heroism  declines, 
the  need  of  spiritual  heroism  steadily  grows. 
The  very  causes  that  have  lessened  the  value  of 
the  one  have  helped  to  heighten  the  value  of  the 
other.  We  are  in  no  danger  now  from  Highland 
caterans  :  the  dangers  that  menace  us  are  far 
more  subtle.  They  spring  from  that  lowering 
of  moral  standards  that  is  unavoidable  in  our 
complex  intercourse.  It  is  not  easy  to  be  oneself 
now,  we  are  so  interlocked  in  what  we  call  society. 
We  have  lost  a  little  liberty,  with  all  our  gains, 
and  are  moulded  more  into  a  common  pattern. 
The  pressure  of  public  opinion  is  tremendous, 
and  public  opinion  makes  for  an  average  type. 
It  is,  therefore,  more  difficult  now  to  be  honestly 
true  to  oneself.  It  takes  a  little  more  heroism 
than  it  did  once.  We  are  more  tempted  to  con- 
form to  common  standards,  to  barter  our  birth- 
right of  individuality,  to  be  what  a  hundred 
interests  would  have  us  be,  rather  than  the  men 
God  meant  that  we  should  be.  And  so  the  need 
of  spiritual  heroism  grows,  as  the  need  of  physical 
heroism  lessens.     The  hair  of  His  head  was  white 


304     THE  NOTE  OF  THE  HEROIC 

as  snow,  we  read — that  does  not  even  suggest  a 
young  society.  When  time  has  mellowed  the 
spirit  of  a  people,  when  age  has  tempered  the 
passion  of  its  youth,  when  the  riot  of  its  blood 
is  somewhat  cooled,  and  it  is  venerable,  stately, 
and  august,  it  is  then  (if  Jesus  Christ  be  living) 
that  there  will  be  eyes  that  are  like  a  flame  of 
fire. 

Now  we  cannot  turn  to  the  earthly  life  of 
Jesus  without  being  struck  with  one  marvellous 
union  there.  I  refer  to  the  union  of  what  was 
beautiful  and  gracious,  with  all  that  was  in  the 
truest  sense  heroic.  We  know  that  a  bruised 
reed  He  would  not  break.  We  cannot  fathom 
the  depths  of  His  compassion.  There  was  never 
a  patience  like  His  patience  with  the  twelve ; 
there  was  never  a  pity  like  His  pity  of  the  sinner. 
He  was  gentle,  charitable,  courteous,  kind,  a  per- 
fect pattern  of  moral  beauty.  But  the  wonder  of 
that  beauty  is  magnified  a  hundredfold,  when  we 
remember  the  heroism  with  which  it  went  hand 
in  hand.  If  to  be  true  to  one's  mission  and  to 
stand  alone  ;  if  to  be  faithful,  and  joyful,  and 
quiet,  and  undaunted  ;  if  to  challenge  all  the 
powers  of  hell  to  combat  ;  if  to  march  forward 


THE  NOTE  OF  THE  HEROIC     305 

without  a  falter  to  a  cross — if  that  be  heroism 
in  its  noblest  meaning,  then  Jesus  of  aNazareth 
must  have  been  heroic.  Tenderness  is  great 
and  heroism  is  sublime.  In  Christ  there 
was  tenderness  infinite,  and  heroism  matchless. 
The  eyes  that  wept  beside  the  grave  of 
Lazarus  were  eyes  that  were  like  a  flame  of 
fire. 

Ill  some  degree,  then,  as  we  grow  like  to 
Christ,  that  union  of  qualities  will  be  found  in 
us.  It  is  one  distinctive  mark  of  that  new 
character  that  has  been  built  up  through  the 
powers  of  the  gospel,  that  there  is  ample  room 
in  it  for  all  that  is  gracious,  and  at  the  same 
time  for  all  that  is  heroic.  There  were  two  great 
schools  of  philosophy  in  Rome  in  the  age  pre- 
ceding the  entrance  of  the  gospel  there.  The 
one  was  Stoicism  and  the  other  Epicureanism, 
and  each  had  its  own  ideal  of  human  character. 
The  aim  of  the  Stoic  was  to  foster  heroism  ;  he 
crushed  out  the  affections  ruthlessly.  The  aim 
of  the  Epicurean  was  not  heroism,  it  was  just 
to  fashion  amiable  gentlemen.  But  the  needs  of 
the  human  heart  broke  down  the  first,  for  pity 
and     love     demanded     recognition.        And     the 

u 


3o6     THE  NOTE  OF  THE  HEROIC 

grandeur  of  the  human  heart  broke  down  the 
second,  fbr  there  is  that  within  each  of  us  that 
craves  for  self-sacrifice.  What  the  world  needed 
was  a  type  of  character  that  could  embrace  and 
glorify  the  two  ideals,  and  I  humbly  submit  that 
the  gospel  gave  us  that.  There  is  a  place  in  it  for 
pity,  there  is  room  for  love  ;  there  is  dew  and 
sunshine  for  the  tenderest  affections  that  nestle 
in  the  shadow  of  the  heart ;  but  there  is  room 
for  the  heroic  too.  We  have  a  cross  to  carry  ; 
we  have  a  witness  to  bear.  We  have  a  life  to 
live  ;  we  have  a  death  to  die.  We  are  following 
a  hope  that  is  sublime,  and  we  fare  ill  without  a 
little  heroism.  We  shall  be  poor  disciples  of  a 
compassionate  Lord,  unless  we  have  eyes  that  can 
soften  into  pity.  But  we  shall  be  poor  soldiers 
in  the  warfare  mystical,  unless  these  eyes  are  as 
a  flame  of  fire. 

It  is  notable,  too,  that  as  the  spiritual  life  of 
Christendom  has  deepened,  as  it  has  grown  richer 
with  the  passing  of  the  ages,  it  has  brought  with 
it  a  deeper  and  truer  conception  of  what  spiritual 
heroism  really  is.  There  is  a  well-known  poem 
by  Tennyson  under  the  title  of  St.  Simeon  Styhtes. 
Tt  is  a  gruesome  description  of  one  of  these  pillar- 


THE  NOTE  OF  THE  HEROIC     307 

saints  whom  people  venerated  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
St.  Simeon  spends  his  years  on  the  top  of  a  high 
pillar  ;  he  is  scorched  by  the  sun  and  is  swept  by 
the  storms  of  winter.  He  grows  blind  and  deaf; 
he  is  racked  with  intolerable  agues.  He  is  praying 
night  and  morning  for  Heaven's  pardon.  And 
round  the  base  of  the  pillar  people  are  ever 
thronging  to  do  reverence  to  this  ascetic  saint. 
Now  that  is  an  extreme  case,  1  grant  you  willingly  ; 
and  it  is  almost  repulsive,  even  in  Tennyson's 
hands.  But  the  fact  remains  that,  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  it  was  such  lives  that  were  the  types  of 
moral  heroism.  Even  St.  Francis,  the  gentlest 
of  all  mystics,  was  desperately  cruel  to  himself. 
It  was  very  noble — I  think  we  all  feel  that.  It 
was  very  noble  ;  but  it  was  mistaken.  And  we 
should  thank  God  that  we  are  living  in  a  time 
when  the  heroism  of  self-suppression  is  disowned, 
to  make  room  for  the  nobler  heroism  of  service. 
It  is  not  on  the  tops  of  pillars  that  we  look  for 
saints  now.  It  is  not  in  cell  or  monastery  that 
we  search  for  heroism.  I  speak  as  a  Protestant, 
for  the  spiritual  types  of  Roman  Catholicism  are 
still  very  largely  mediaeval.  The  Christian  doctor 
who  in  a  London  hospital   sucked  out  the  diph- 


JOB     THE  NOTE  OF  THE  HEROIC 

theric  poison  from  a  poor  child's  throat ;  the 
Christian  student  who  will  hold  fast  to  truth, 
though  a  score  of  voices  denounce  him  as  heretical ; 
the  Christian  worker  who  goes  down  into  the 
slums  and  toils  there,  when  all  the  novelty  is 
gone,  for  the  poor  and  the  fallen  for  whom  Jesus 
died ;  the  Christian  girl,  trained  in  a  gentle  home, 
who  volunteers  for  mission -work  in  Calabar — 
it  is  these  that  are  our  types  of  the  heroic. 
The  heroism  of  the  hermitage  is  gone.  We 
have  drunk  more  fully  of  Christ  Jesus  now. 
We  have  seen  more  deeply  into  these  wonderful 
eyes,  which  John  says  were  like  a  flame  of 
fire. 

But  I  must  close,  and  I  do  so  with  two  remarks. 
The  first  is  that  there  is  always  danger  for  a 
church  when  the  note  of  the  heroic  passes  from 
its  life.  It  is  very  pleasant  to  be  very  comfort- 
able, and  to  talk  about  one's  good-natured 
congregation.  But  the  eyes  of  the  vision  were  not 
good-natured  eyes  ;  they  were  eyes  that  burned 
as  with  a  flame  of  fire.  It  was  heroism  that 
made  Christ's  kirk  in  Scotland.  And  it  was 
heroism  that  saved  Christ's  kirk  in  Scotland. 
It  was  secession,  and  deposition,  and  disruption. 


THE  NOTE  OF  THE  HEROIC     309 

in  the  times  that  are  well  described  as  moderate. 
And  when  that  uncalculati ng  enthusiasm  passes 
and  leaves  us  comfortable  and  statistical,  let 
us  beware  lest  a  voice  say  to  us  also,  *  I 
know  thy  works,  that  thou  art  neither  cold 
nor  hot.' 

And  the  second  is  :  I  appeal  to  the  young  men 
on  the  ground  of  the  heroism  of  Christ  Jesus. 
Mr.  FitzGerald,  the  translator  of  Omar  Khayyam, 
in  an  exquisite  little  piece  he  calls  *  Euphranor,' 
has  some  suggestive  words  on  chivalry.  He  says 
that  the  charm  of  chivalry  was  just  its  note  of 
heroism ;  and  if  it  appealed — as  it  certainly  did 
appeal  —  to  the  bravest  and  noblest  and  most 
gallant  men,  it  was  just  because  it  put  the  accent 
there.  May  I  not  do  the  same  with  Jesus  Christ  ? 
I  think  it  is  a  true  appeal  to  opening  manhood. 
Never  forget  the  heroism  of  Jesus,  nor  the  heroic 
in  the  Christian  calling.  The  time  will  come 
when  you  will  need  Christ's  tenderness.  You 
will  want  a  gentle  Lord,  and  you  will  find  Him. 
But  to-day  it  is  a  call  to  the  heroic  that  appeals, 
and  I  thank  God  I  can  hear  that  call  in  Christ. 
Go  !  mother,  bowed  with  a  mother's  sorrow — gc 
to   the  graveside  where  Jesus  wept.     But  eager, 


310     THE  NOTE  OF  THE  HEROIC 

gallant,  generous  heart  of  youth — why  should  I 
lead  you  to  that  scene  of  tears  ?  You  crave  a 
heroic  captain  for  the  battle,  and  the  eyes  of 
Christ  are  as  a  flame  of  fire. 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  His  Majesty, 
at  the  I'^dinburgh  University  Press 


DATE  DUE 


^ 


